“Peeto!” I peered over the edge, then up and down the tier. “Peeto? You see anyone up here while we talked?”

But he’d already split, his stinky shoes leaving mud puddles on the scuffed linoleum. The aisle was as empty as my bunk.

Shit.

I’d had stuff stolen before. A fact of life in the dens. I recalled those envious glances down at the tellers. But . . . but . . . but . . . this was my best take ever. I couldn’t quite make it real. My grab bag, the girl’s fancy pack, the two blister packs of . . . whatever. Gone.

Had it got all quiet in the tiers of a sudden? And Peeto whispered off so fast?

Peeto was no pal, but I’d pegged him as a whiner and a mooch, not a thief. He could’ve gone down to cadge those boots . . . but what if that food-and-need spiel was just a distraction, while some confederate spidered across the upper bunks and stole my stuff?

What to do?

Think, think, think.

I felt like I’d spent the whole night telling myself to get a grip. Normally I’d charge down to the swap manager and yell theft—the squeaky wheel and all. I’d claimed the girl’s pack legally, after all, and in a tight community, someone’s sure to notice if you show up with stuff known to belong to someone else. Jenn could swear to the pack being mine, even if the skanky teller would not.

The blister packs were problematic. Should’ve left them in my gut wallet. But a den thief wasn’t likely to rat out his victim for illegal possession and have to explain how he got the goods in the first place. I was thinking ‘he,’ but it could’ve been anyone.

Either way, I was probably safe. Just a lot poorer than I’d been a few minutes ago.

Wait. My brain was so fried, I’d forgot. I rolled into my bunk and lay flat with relief.

Not all gone.

I sat up and drew the curtains again. A shard of gray light edged past the smudges on my window. I shoved my food aside and unzipped my waist pack. Just slipping my fingers around the mystery packet eased the ache of loss.

This could be the worst or the best of my haul.

I loosed the binding and slid the contents out of their plastic sheath.

A chunk of it dropped into my lap: a thin, hard rectangle swaddled in what, even in the dim light, I knew for a worn cloth napkin. Picker training taught us about fabrics. Occasionally, you’d turn up a lode of fine clothing or old linens that the water hadn’t ruined, miracle survivors like us. Decent sheets and towels tallied high at the tellers, for the unused-to comfort they supplied.

I unfolded the wrapping. Inside was a small book.