The book could wait. There was still the stack of paper and plastic to explore.

I lifted the top layer, unfolded it, laid it out on the blanket. Then the next and the next. When the space was filled, I sat back, unable to do more than gawk.

It was everything. ID, food and water ration cards, even a current med card for an uptown clinic and pharmacy. Uptown, past the checkpoints.

Unbelievable.

I held the ID closer to the window. Maybe the ninja girl’s, maybe some borrowed identity. Hard to tell from the fuzzy holo—longer hair, a goofy innocent grin—but nothing was obviously altered. Could still be a good forgery, but that would require electronic scrutiny I had no access to. Could that be done at the Souk as well?

Papers. The whole nine yards. A treasure trove. Maybe.

I flicked the stiff plastic with a fingernail. Wide awake now, I set the ID card down alongside the rest and stared at it all for a while.

One item remained: a sealed blue envelope from the bottom of the stack. I pried up the flap, eased out its contents. More paper, more rectangles of plastic. I laid this new set out on top of the rest. And truly could not believe my eyes.

Bright against the mud-colored blanket were exit and travel permissions, ferry vouchers, tickets, boarding passes, transit visas, immunity certificates, baggage stamps. As best I could tell, everything you’d need to score a trip off the Island and far inland, away from the encroaching seas, from the refugee camps, from everything.

I squinted at the top sheet of printed itinerary. Day of departure: April 5th.

What was today? Sometime in March? The tellers kept track. I could check at the desk come evening.

I flopped on my back, reminding myself to breathe.

Rubio told me once about lotteries from before, when ordinary folks won unimaginable sums of money and hadn’t a clue what to do with it. I was sure I’d know . . . until now. My options? One, turn it all in, take my cut and let Rousseau deal with it. I’d get serious credit, doled out over time in food chits and medical care. Two, try to sell it myself. Fortunes were paid for legit documents, supposedly.

What would I do with a fortune?

Like, how to explain that new set of rain gear or clean sheets on my bunk? Even if I could wend a safe path through the black market, where to hide my sudden wealth while I spent it? Nowhere in the den, if stuff could vanish the minute I turned my back.