Instead, he resolved his way down to the kitchen, without the cane this time. He was disappointed to learn that the cherry supply had not been replenished, but he was able to scavenge enough odds and ends, bits and pieces, and stray scraps of perfectly serviceable food from inside the cabinets and barrels to fill his stomach.

It was pleasant, this sense of being full. Over the years, he’d lost track of what it felt like. The sensation was quite different from his old way of managing his hunger, which was to load himself up on drugs until he simply forgot that he hadn’t eaten enough in a long time.

But even once he was content, he didn’t want to stop at “full.” A lifetime of paranoia about his next meal made him want to grab everything and hoard it, but he stopped himself from filling his mostly empty satchel with whatever he could carry from the kitchen. He’d left most of the bag’s contents under the sickroom bed since no one seemed inclined to take them away from him, except the pickles and he didn’t need any of the foodstuffs right at that moment. He’d kept the lighting supplies and added the mask he’d been using, plus extra filters and other small sundries—including a little pot of foul-smelling cream he’d found on the table beside his bed next to a note that read simply, in blocky print, “Fer your hands. And stop scratchin at them.”

Gloves still eluded him, but they were next on his list. He needed a pair if he planned to run around up top, and he had a mission—a real-live bona fide job, given to him by someone who nobody argued with.

The more he thought about it, the more he liked it.

He moved with the authority of the city’s “mayor.” So long as he stayed in his good graces, no harm would come to him. He mused on this pleasant fact while he chewed, eating so thoughtfully that he almost didn’t hear the odd thumping noise that came from down the hall. When it did penetrate his thoughts, he concluded that it moved with the rhythm of footsteps—and when the stepper appeared, Rector froze like a small wild animal.

All his smug, hypothetical confidence evaporated on contact with the man who stood in the kitchen doorway, because he nearly filled it. He wasn’t as tall as Captain Cly—and who was, really?—but he looked like a man Cly’s length who had been squashed down to merely average height. He had a wide, flat face and arms as thick as railroad ties. In his hand, he held a cane sturdy enough to support a moose.

“Hello,” Rector peeped.

The man said hello back, with only a faint note of a question. Then he said, “You’re Rector, aren’t you?”

“I am.”