Chapters (47)
- Cover
- ALSO BY MARJORIE B. KELLOGG AVAILABLE FROM DAW BOOKS
- Dedication
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- About the Author
Jake and Spunk had claimed one of the small tables over by Green, as far away from Blue as they could get. I was halfway to join them before I saw they were doubling down on Rubio about something. Not so you’d notice unless you were looking, but I always was. Rubio hated being scolded, but these were the two guys in the den he most liked hanging with, so he just slumped in his chair, spooning eggs into his mouth and scowling. Then a white-aproned figure glided up to Jake’s side, half-filled tray balanced on his hip, and the lecture abruptly ended.
Jake, his black hair more mussed than usual, smoothed his growl and produced a weary smile. “Hey, there, Sam. Looking to clear up?”
Times I was feeling most confused and sorry for myself, I sat at one of Sam’s tables, for a stiff reminder that things could be worse. Seemed just the day for it. Sam would find this ruckus deeply unsettling.
Say-it-Again Sam was the surest sign of a good heart behind Rousseau’s stern façade. He didn’t go out. Ever. He’d never find his way back to the den. Rousseau gave him in-house chores: feeding the chickens in the roof coops, busing tables in the Mess, and he had that down pretty well. He was neat as a pin, wore button shirts with rolled-down sleeves, and was always clean-shaved. New razors were scarce, so Sam used a battered straight razor that some picker had brought in as a curiosity, plus soap we made in the kitchen. He never cut himself. Given Rousseau’s disapproval of facial hair, lots of the guys traded food or goods for Sam’s careful barbering. Several times during his Mess shift, he’d retreat to the men’s to comb his few gray hairs into more precise order.
He’d worked in restaurants before, so the Mess fit his comfort level. Sometimes he forgot what slot the forks or spoons went in, or he’d throw perfectly good leftovers into the compost pails, but he always did up his collar and tucked in his shirt. Rubio said he should have ‘OCD’ tattooed on his forehead.
About once a meal, every meal, Sam cornered some willing—or not so willing—sucker who’d just settled in to savor a ration of home brew.
“Say it again,” Sam would beg quietly. “I forgot what you told me.”
And whoever sat nearest would begin the story of Abel’s Wave or some other Wave, then pass the turn around. I always begged off. No way stuff I’d only heard secondhand could satisfy the stark urgency in Sam’s eyes. Yep, my deal could’ve been a lot worse.