I don’t bother to watch him writhe on the floor. I turn to discover that the two remaining shadows are grappling with someone else. I reach for the one on the left, grab a handful of hair, and yank backward with all my strength. Hair rips from its roots as his neck kinks backward. I sweep the back of his leg with my foot. He topples; I step aside and let him fall, his head cracking against the edge of the cot.

When I look up, the final shadow is subdued. He sits huddled on the ground, cradling a broken arm. Above him looms my ally, tall with gangly shoulders, but somehow as steady and large as a mountain. It’s Iván.

He turns to me. “I think that’s all of them.”

The maelstrom is slowing. As my heartbeat approaches normal, the pains in my rib and my cheekbone intensify, making it hurt to breathe. My stomach roils, threatening to toss up my cornmeal sludge. Everyone is awake now, their shadowed bodies sitting up in their cots, watching us.

My limbs are shaking. They always shake after the maelstrom leaves.

I say the first thing that comes to mind. “I didn’t need your help, Iván.”

Iván has a split lip and disheveled hair, but he doesn’t seem bad off. As usual, he’s frowning at me. “I didn’t want to help you.”

“You didn’t? I mean, good. I don’t need saving.” Blood drips wet and warm from my nose to my upper lip. I wipe it with my sleeve before remembering that I’ll have to wash the blood out of my shirt before morning.

“I know you don’t,” Iván says.

I give him a perplexed look. “Then why—”

“Red, I don’t even like you. But what they were doing was wrong. It wasn’t about saving you. It was about stopping them.”

“Oh.” It’s the kind of thing Rosario would say. Bad men need stopping.

“What’s going on here?” It’s Guardsman Bruno, standing in the doorway with a torch. Several other Guards are right behind him.

I let my gaze fall to my recent attackers. All four are on the floor. I recognize Sancho in spite of his smashed face; his breathing makes an odd whistling noise. Beto is collapsed against the wall cradling a broken arm; the torch flame casts light on his hands. His cuticles are stained black. He’s the one who spilled my hair dye.

Two of the other ducklings are curled up like babies in the cradle—one is still protecting his crotch, the other is blinking oddly while blood seeps from his head wound.

Aldo sits up in his bunk, looking down at me, eyes wide. “I’m sorry I didn’t help, Red,” he whispers. “I panicked, and . . . I was afraid . . .”

“I was just about to jump in,” Pedrón says, trying to look gallant. “I really was. In fact, these boys are lucky I was slow to wake up, or I would have—”

“Shut up, Pedrón,” I snap.