There was a double-sized mattress on the floor, with about a yard of space on three sides of it. The two pillows and two blankets twisted into two separate configurations on either half of the mattress made it look as if this room housed a couple. A thick wooden pole—something like a rake handle—was braced horizontally against the far wall at shoulder height with the ends lodged in two of the Swiss cheese holes in the rock. Over it were draped a handful of T-shirts and two pairs of jeans. A wooden stool was flush with the wall beside the makeshift clothes rack, and on the floor beneath it was a stack of worn paperback books.

“Who?” I said to Jeb, whispering again. This space so obviously belonged to someone that I no longer felt like we were alone.

“Just one of the guys out on the raid. Won’t be back for a while. We’ll find you something by then.”

I didn’t like it—not the room, but the idea of staying in it. The presence of the owner was strong despite the simple belongings. No matter who he was, he would not be happy to have me here. He would hate it.

Jeb seemed to read my mind—or maybe the expression on my face was clear enough that he didn’t have to.

“Now, now,” he said. “Don’t worry about that. This is my house, and this is just one of my many guest rooms. I say who is and isn’t my guest. Right now, you are my guest, and I am offering you this room.”

I still didn’t like it, but I wasn’t going to upset Jeb, either. I vowed that I would disturb nothing, if it meant sleeping on the floor.

“Well, let’s keep moving. Don’t forget: third from the left, seventh in.”

“Green screen,” I added.

“Exactly.”

Jeb took me back through the big garden room, around the perimeter to the opposite side, and through the biggest tunnel exit. When we passed the irrigators, they stiffened and turned, afraid to have me behind their backs.

This tunnel was well lit, the bright crevices coming at intervals too regular to be natural.

“We go even closer to the surface now. It gets drier, but it gets hotter, too.”

I noticed that almost immediately. Instead of being steamed, we were now being baked. The air was less stuffy and stale. I could taste the desert dust.

There were more voices ahead. I tried to steel myself against the inevitable reaction. If Jeb insisted on treating me like… like a human, like a welcome guest, I was going to have to get used to this. No reason to let it make me nauseous over and over again. My stomach began an unhappy rolling anyway.

“This way’s the kitchen,” Jeb told me.