Fred snickered; she couldn’t help it—it had been funny. Thomas stepped in behind her, neatly cutting Artur off so that he nearly walked into the door frame. Artur in turn gave Thomas a “friendly” shove—and he nearly went sprawling into the wall.

She turned and frowned. “Play nice, you two.”

“What?” Thomas said innocently.

“Little Rika, you have a suspicious mind.”

“I have a headache from the trouble you two are causing, not to mention all the shit’s that’s probably still in my lungs.” That was a small lie; she didn’t have a headache. She never got sick. But still. They were driving her to one, and that was bad enough.

“Legal’s okay?” Thomas was asking, shouldering into a leather jacket. “Or do you want to go back to that sushi place? Art? You need raw fish?”

“No. I can eat many of your foods.”

“Uh, you guys—aren’t you going to be cold? I mean, it’s probably only sixty degrees outside today.” He gestured to their T-shirts and shorts.

Fred and Artur looked at each other, then at Thomas. “No.”

“Oh. Right. Well then. Fancy? Or fast? Raw or cooked? Or Souper Salad? Subway? Clam Shack?”

“Let’s go to Faneuil Hall,” Fred suggested. “Artur can get a look at all kinds of stuff. And there’s bound to be something there for all three of us.” Also: she loved Faneuil Hall. Well. The food. Not the crowds.

It was only a few blocks from the NEA, and they were there after five minutes of brisk walking. Brisk walking in silence, Fred was relieved to see. She felt exhausted: not just physically—in fact, not physically at all—her brain was tired. Being around Artur and Thomas was like walking a tightrope. Made of glass. In bare feet.

And their little shit problem—when she got hold of the nasty fuck who was dumping his crap into the ocean, they were going to have a long talk. Possibly in the ICU.

The sights and smells of Faneuil Hall lifted her spirits and she quickened her step so that she was almost running to the food stalls. Even better, at this time of day, it was hardly even that crowded.

“Is this a gathering place for your people?”

“Only the hungry ones.”

Artur sniffed appreciatively. “I smell…”

“Everything.”

“Everything?”

“Pretzels, steamed clams, clam chowder, hamburgers, turkey legs, ice cream, sushi, gelato, bagels, doughnuts, pizza, chocolate chip cookies, milk.” Fred took a breath. “Smoothies, rice, curry, noodles, frozen yogurt, lemonade, enchiladas, milkshakes.”

The marketplace was brilliantly lit, and they went into the main building which, from one end to the other, was stall after stall of food.

“Great oceans,” Artur gasped. “I have never seen so much food in one place!”

“Do you guys even cook your food?” Thomas asked. He tried to sound idly curious, but Fred wasn’t fooled; there was barely contained eagerness there for anyone who cared to see it.

“At times we collect on land and have feasts, yes. The ones who can build and control fire are revered in our culture.”