Tito had written two names in the second column, then backed down the ladder. Two of Rousseau’s canoe crew lads. Knew neither of them well.

“You’re not guessing!” Jenn’s lips were puffy, like she’d been kissed too hard, or had been gnawing on them.

“Can’t possibly.” So sad feeling relieved that it was only two. “Tell me.”

“I got a promotion!”

“Yeah? To what?”

“I’m off picker duty! Rousseau’s assigned me to Media.”

“That’s great, Jenn.” I stood tiptoe to reread the list of the injured. Lads again and so not my sort of friends. But still, six Joes down for the count. No info how bad any of them were. Probably still finding that out.

“No more nights on the street!” Jenn did an arm-flung pirouette, missing an older man’s cheek by inches. “No more awful work clothes!”

Almost like the girls on the Causeway, the real glimmer girls, oblivious to the broken city around them. But I couldn’t be angry at her. “You should’ve been in Media all along.”

“Rousseau used to say I was too old. But the Wiz kids stood up for me. They saw what I can do.”

“Good for them.”

Now that name and number were known, muttered speculation in the hall had moved on to why. Other dens had lost people to weather or street attacks, but never to random shootings. Like, what do you get from a sniping? It made no sense.

“What say we find something to eat?”

“Now?” Jenn looked puzzled. Her flush was cooling a bit. “Can’t. I’m headed right up there! I’ll have my own station and everything! I can watch for my news gal all the time!”

“Ought to get to it, then.” Most of the Wizzers were down in the hall with everyone else, so she’d be on her own in the loft. If her mania persisted, she’d keep at it, forget to sleep or eat, but at least she’d be focused on work. “I’m really happy for you!”

“I knew you would be!” She lunged, hugged me too hard, then raced off up the stairs.

I let out a deep breath. I’d check on her later, maybe bring her a snack.

It’d be a while before the kitchen settled down enough to produce a meal for everyone who was up, which by now was most of us, regardless of shift. I went looking for Rubio, worried he might have Vanya deep on his mind. No sign, but I found Spunk pacing, his outrage radiating like heat, clearing a space around him. Anxious freshman pickers eyed him from the sidelines.

I fell into step beside him. “Any idea what went down?”

He flicked a scowl, then saw it was me. “Eh, yer back. Had me worried.”

“Took a while tonight. But what . . . ?”

“Rousseau’s talkin’ wit da injad. Den we’ll know.”

“No idea who?”