Sam was in his sixties, so there was plenty he did remember. The early years of the Big Melt, the seas rising and the storms’ increasing frequency and ferocity. He could tell you how denial and corrupt leadership congealed into global paralysis. He could detail the belated efforts to prepare: the flood walls and dykes, the tunnel plugs and pump stations, the solar panels sprouting on every rooftop among gardens and windmills. It made me shiver when he described his building in the Village, how after a while, only a few apartments on each floor were occupied, and then, only his. Then came Superstorm Hasan, and Sam’s memory went out with the tide.

We all got into telling our own storm story. Each time a tale was told, its trauma seemed farther away. Maybe why mine still held me in its grip. No story yet to tell.

Rube had just started in on Misha’s giant surge, how he’d watched it roll in and engulf the bottom floors of his office building, where he and his few diehard colleagues were living and working, how the foundations shook. His hands swiveled in the air and his brush of hair seemed to stand up as if in a gale. Abruptly, Sam noticed the clutter on the table as if for the first time. He stood, crammed his tray with empty bowls and mugs, rearranged them twice, then hustled off for the kitchen, chasing some distant alarm only he could hear.

“Overload.” Rubio dropped his arms to his thighs, spent.

“Or maybe it was them . . .”

The rabble-rousers were on the move. They’d fanned out from their corner, bulling around among the tables, goading everyone to high-five their bellows for revenge. A total violation of the mess hall code of conduct.

Spunk said, “Heah dey come . . .”

Jake and Spunk were huddled over mugs of herbal, having moved on to discussing the other dens. A favorite topic, based mostly on hearsay, but as Rousseau’s right hands, these two had visited the dens we had deals with, so had some clue what they were talking about. I listened in.

“Ladysmith’s wort’ keepin’ an eye on.” The tense curl of Spunk’s bony back said he and Jake were ignoring the approaching racket on purpose.

Jake brushed crumbs off his vest of many pockets. “Greenhorns.”

“Mebbe. But growin’. Der gittin’ da idea. Maxine takes in more newbies den mos’. Even some we olda dens t’row out.”

“Which keeps the skill level minimal. Between us, Tom, and Empire, we’ve pretty much siphoned off the best. What’s left, you might not want to let in the door.”

The human surge crested loudly behind us and suddenly, Rube and me were getting nudged on the shoulders. Ace and two identical, red-shirted buddies.

“All rise for Unca Joe!” Nudge, nudge. “Stand up for your den!” Nudge, nudge.

“Ow!” I saw Ace was pummeling Rubio extra hard. “Leave him alone, you creeps!”