Christ knew he didn’t have a dime to call his own.

Steeling himself against the inevitable wash of light, he put one hand on the door and gave it a gentle push. Its hinges let out a small squeak, and the damp-swollen wood scraped against the doorjamb, then scooted inward, revealing a jumble of tall stills, jars, boxes, tubes, and funnels. And light, always the light … so much light that Rector wondered how anyone could see anything at all.

He shielded his eyes and stepped inside, calling out, “Harry? It’s just me.”

Harry Sharpe, chemist or alchemist or something between the two, was hunched over a table of delicate equipment, measuring spoons, and beakers. He did not immediately look up from his work, but he stopped what he was doing. “Stay where you are, Rector. I won’t have you jostling me now, boy—you hear?”

“Sure, Harry. Whatever you say.”

He closed the door behind himself and leaned against it, fully prepared to do as he’d been told. Harry was cooking, and cooking was dangerous. One ill-timed interruption or misplaced hand, one extra drop of the wrong ingredient in the wrong decanter, and the resulting explosion could level the old lumber camp like a meteor. Even Rector knew better than to interfere, so he stayed where he was. He watched Harry’s wide back, and the resumed motion of his shoulders, and the back of the man’s salt-and-pepper hair, which had gone flat with perspiration.

“You shouldn’t show up without warning like this. If I hadn’t been cooking, I might’ve had a gun in my hand.”

“Sorry,” Rector mumbled.

Harry made a finishing gesture—adding a final dose of something sizzling and bleak—and stood up straighter than before, though he did not yet turn around. He watched the chemical reaction before him, waiting to see if anything needed adjustment before deciding all was well.

Still keeping his back to the boy, he said, “I don’t suppose there’s a chance in hell you’re here with a fistful of money, is there?”

Rector shifted his weight from one foot to the other and scratched idly at his elbow. “Well, you see, Harry, it’s been a strange week.”

“Nothing strange at all about you coming by empty-handed.”

“Aw, don’t be like that. It’s my birthday.”

“Birthdays aren’t strange either.”

“But this is my eighteenth birthday,” he insisted, not sure the approach would work, but not yet ready to abandon it. “I been kicked out of the Home.”