Shakily at first, and then stronger as the drug was given more room to move, more blood flow to carry it through his system, he grabbed his supplies and packed them back up. Foil and pipe stem and matches into the pouch. Empty waxed packet tossed into the oncoming waves. Blanket tied back up at its corners. Everything over his shoulder, bouncing against his back as he left the beach.

He’d already forgotten that he was angry at Harry.

Just for now, for this stretch of minutes—hours, if he was lucky—he did not worry about where he’d sleep or what he’d eat, or whether or not Zeke’s phantom was coming for him. He didn’t even worry about how he was going to get past the Seattle wall, or what would happen once he got inside. For these moments, everything was clear. The path was as straight and illuminated as if it’d been painted onto the ground at his feet. And not only would there be no deviation from this course, but he could see no peril whatsoever attached to following it.

First, up onto the mudflats. Then, into the Outskirts and around their edge.

Next, up to the wall at the far southeast side of its expanse.

And then, through it. Into the lost, poisoned, abandoned city of Seattle.

It used to be that there were only two ways into Seattle: under the wall, or over it. Going over could be trouble, because it meant finding an air captain who was bribable enough to bring you into the roiling cauldron of thick, ugly air inside the wall. By and large this meant pirates, and pirates were, by definition, not the most trustworthy sort.

Rector did not like pirates.

He didn’t care so much for scrabbling around through soft, wet, smelly underground tunnels, either, but that was the better option up until six months ago, when an earthquake had collapsed the last easy access point—a water-runoff tube made of brick, part of the old sewer system from back when the city was alive. There were other ways to get underneath; Rector was positive of that. But he didn’t know any off the top of his head, and he didn’t want to ask the kind of people who could’ve told him. He owed them all money.

Anyway, these days he knew a third means into the city. A very recent one, still under construction: a gate cut into the wall about forty feet up. He’d seen men working on it by the water’s edge where the old piers rotted in the tidal muck. They’d picked a spot where no one was likely to see them working, and with King Street Station just on the other side of the barrier.