Clo slunk home at nightfall, lugging her bag of parts to sort and salvage in time for the markets tomorrow. She laid out her finds on the table. She didn’t like fixing weapons, but the sparked-out Mors would fetch plenty of shale if she could bring it back to life. They needed the dosh.

Mam was in the corner, wrapped up tight in a threadbare blanket, and Clo’s work was punctuated by her wracking, pained coughs. Clo winced at each one, knowing they were marking down the time her mam had left. Once someone had Snarled lungs, it was only a question of how long, how comfortable. How much medicine they could afford.

Clo’s head snapped up when someone knocked at the door.

“Let them in, Clo,” Mam wheezed. “We’re expecting them.”

Clo let out a soft swear. “Ye promised nae strays.”

More hacking coughs. No way to pretend they weren’t home. “Just open the door, Cloelia.”

Clo scowled and picked up the broken Mors for show. She was a scrawny fifteen-year-old and couldn’t scare a marsh cat, but the gun might give whoever was behind the door pause.

The flickering light in the hallway showed a hulking man, face angry as storm water, supporting a slimmer bloke drenched in sweat and blood. The hale man met her eyes, and she flinched away. She didn’t want anybody remembering her face.

He whispered to Mam and they both helped the other bloke to the bed. Mam went to work right quick—cutting off his clothing, cleaning him best she could with hot water, bad whisky, and clean scraps of cloth. The larger man shifted from foot to foot, awkward in such a small space. He had big hands that were scarred here and there. A mechanic, maybe, like Clo.

“Hey,” he said softly to her. His face was not as stormlike now.

Clo ignored him and slurped down her noodles, hunching over her bowl protectively. The man took out some nutrition bars and crammed two down his gullet before offering her one.

She snatched it from him, tore off the wrapper, and took a big bite as she headed back to her workstation. She wasn’t one to shun free food, and this tasted pure gleyed. She could snarf another half dozen, easy.

He laughed deep in his throat. “Don’t eat it too fast, kid.” He watched her tinker with the Mors. He didn’t mention she’d near brandished a broken weapon at him. “You’re soldering that part half an inch too high.”

She glared at him, but the bogging sinkhole of a man was right. She adjusted the part.

“Briggs,” he said to her, holding out his hand once she’d finished the welding. After a long pause, she took it. His hand was warm. “You do good work.”