No. This is the first day I’ve smuggled goods in weeks, and it’s nearly gotten me caught already. I shouldn’t push my luck. I should lie low, hide out, wait for the mayor and her cops to focus their efforts on another target.

Pretty Boy doesn’t respond for a second. Then he says, “Not even if I’ve got information that can get you to your brother?”

I stumble to a stop. People push past me. Ginger is ten steps away and I don’t care. “What did you say?” I demand, rounding on Pretty Boy.

“I’ll trade it to you tonight,” he murmurs quickly, “at the boardwalk, just before sunset.” He glances at Ginger. “But you’ve got to get out of here first.”

I grab his arm, hold him in place. “What’s the information?” I hiss. The rest of the world is an unimportant blur of background noise.

He looks at my hand clenched around his arm and raises an eyebrow. My reaction has confirmed how important his information—whatever it is—is to me. I should backpedal. Should reestablish control of the conversation. In my line of work, the most vital rule is to never show your cards, and I’ve just handed him the whole deck.

I don’t move. I wait for him to speak.

“I’ll answer your question if you answer one of mine,” he says.

“Out of the way!” yells Ginger behind us, speaking to the huddle of people between us and him. The older officer is hanging back, still between me and the storm drain.

“What question?” I demand.

Pretty Boy nods at the crowd. “Where are these people going?”

I stare at him. What the hell is he talking about? The crowd is going to the dispensary. Today is ration disbursement. But the tone in his voice is strangely dark, and there’s something odd in his eyes, lurking behind that cool satisfaction.

I glance up the road. There’s a fork ahead—right to the dispensary, left to the road leading to Valkyrie Bridge. And the crowd … the crowd is turning left. I stop breathing, because there’s only one reason people go to Valkyrie Bridge.

Pretty Boy pushes my hand off his arm. “Go and see,” he tells me in a low tone. “After you get away. Then decide if you want to do a deal with me.”

Then Ginger is on us. He grabs my shoulder, straight-arms me out of the crowd. The smell of him washes over me: fresh and crisp with light chemical undertones. It takes me a minute to identify the scent as dryer sheets. An unimaginable luxury in a city where most of the generators ran out of juice long ago. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he warns me, eyes tight and vicious.