Downstairs, he seemed to have got the lads under control. The roaring faded, doors closed, debate lingered on the stairs, sullen voices whispered through the tier. The racks shuddered and creaked as people clambered to their bunks. My journal writer went to bed in a three-masted, storm-tossed boat adrift in an endless ocean. Considering that, the stone walls of Unca Joe felt a whole lot more secure.

I put the book away. Face each day as it comes. With luck, Rousseau would cancel the night shift as well, and we could all stay safe at home for a change.

TWELVE

The light was all wrong when I woke, like I’d slept through the whole afternoon. Snores all around me, so I wasn’t the only one. No wake-up call. But I knew it wasn’t Sunday. Ah, right. The attack.

I stuck my head out. My cross-aisle neighbor, a slight, dreadlocked girl named Kari, was scaling the rack with a steaming mug in her free hand and a hunk of bread between her teeth.

“No call tonight, Kari? What time is it?”

She kept climbing till she could stash the mug in her bunk and free up her mouth. “Eighteen hundred. Rousseau pulled both shifts off the streets for now.”

Just what I’d hoped. “Good move.”

“Yeah! Guys gettin’ shot an’ all! Friggin’ scary!” She tore off a gob of bread. “Be chores instead, of course.”

“I can live with that.” The warm scent from her mug made my stomach tingle. I reached for my jeans and tee.

Out on the balcony, I peered down at Main. Freaky to see the big space so still and deserted. A lone teller processed some last-minute turn-ins while two of the older women rearranged stuff on the barter shelves, busying themselves with make-work. Tension hung in the air like an invisible mist. When someone banged through the mess hall doors, they both started, then shared an uncomfortable laugh.

My flip-flops clattered on the empty stairs. At the turn, a pair of strangers nearly ran me down, bright blue messenger vests flapping. On their way to Rousseau’s office, probably to take news of the attack around to the other dens. Past me too fast to catch their sign. Didn’t matter. Vests on, they belonged to all of us. Rousseau never used the CB for sensitive stuff, in case he’d be overheard. By who? Be interesting to know who the boss was worried about.

That reminded me of the bracelet, and I felt around in my belly pack to make sure it was still there. It’d be a while before Rousseau was wanting to bother about a picker’s take, even a maybe-diamond bracelet. Besides . . . sure, Rousseau was my hero, but the privacy of his office always encouraged him to update your report card and offer some stiff advice. I had enough to think about already.