“Well, maybe he shouldn’t share so loudly.” She floated a grin, like this was all just casual gossip. “Look, it’s nice you’re loyal. Why not hint that toning it down might win him better luck with the ladies. As it is, they’re afraid to be seen with him.”

I returned a rueful nod. Rubio was desperate to snag a girlfriend. She’d hit on the one thing that might convince him to play politics, and it was kindly meant. But there was a warning there, too: tell your friend the walls have ears, and they’re not liking what they hear. As a senior, she might be close to Rousseau. “Thanks. I’ll pass that on.”

Minutes later, I was dried, dressed, and on my way downstairs.

Returning day-shifters crowded the teller lines as I pushed through Main toward the din of voices, dish rattle, and the scrape of chairs on concrete inside the Mess. I paused outside the doors. My guilt, the bag’s theft, now Rubio in trouble—my brain was buzzing.

The Mess, windowless and starkly lit by solar LEDs, was not a room you wanted to spend time in if you cared about looking your best or preserving your hearing. The ceiling was low, amping the constant clatter. The cinderblock walls were painted whatever color we could scavenge enough of to cover all of one. The mismatched tables were always jammed at mealtime, like now, breakfast for us, dinner for day shifters, and no one thought about keeping their voice down.

A roar erupted by the Blue Wall as I came in—Rousseau’s lads clustered at a big table, fists pounding wood and metal, one guy up on a bench, bellowing and gesturing, and a crowd gathering to egg him on. Wouldn’t you know, it was my old pal Ace.

“That raid was a call to action! If we let ’em get away with it, they’ll be back tomorrow and the next day and the next!”

I fast-stepped past, surprised he could muster up such a complete sentence. But he was clearly their epicenter: blondly handsome, cheeks flushed with bloodlust, voice pitched to carry. Hard to come by matching duds in storm-wracked Manhattan, but this crowd was sure working on a uniform: their tees were all some shade of red. A disturbingly ruddy swath against the wall’s peeling aquamarine.

I grabbed toast and a precious slice of our roof-grown ham at the service hatch, greeted the cooks inside, paid my chit, signed for my milk ration. Not just the powder and water glop today, so the roof goats must be milking again. No sign of Peeto anywhere.