“Been out cold for the last day or so, haven’t you?”

“I have.”

“Huh,” he said, and approached the same cabinets that Rector had so freshly raided. “I heard about your hair. Hard to miss a boy like you.”

“So I’m told.”

“I’m Jeremiah, but half the folks down here just call me Swakhammer,” he informed Rector, not looking at him. He was too busy rummaging, hunting for something in particular. Still facedown in the storage, he added, “The nurse who’s been looking after you—that’s my daughter.”

Rector said, “Ah. Yes. She seems to have done a bang-up job.”

“She always does. So, what about you?” Swakhammer turned around with a paper-wrapped piece of something smelly in his hands. Peeling the old newsprint aside, he revealed a slab of smoked salmon that Rector wished to God he’d seen first, because it’d be camped out in his stomach by now if he had.

“What about me?”

“Are you roaming around in the Vaults all by your lonesome?”

“For the moment,” Rector confirmed. “I’ve only been up a little while. I don’t guess you know where Huey or Zeke might be, do you?”

“Both of them are up at the fort, I think. Huey flies with the Naamah Darling more often than not, and Zeke is trying to learn something from the captain—or trying to keep from learning anything, I can’t tell which.” He bit off a hunk of fish, and held the rest by its wrapping. As he chewed, he leaned back against the counter and spoke around the mouthful. “You want me to take you up there? Or do you know the way?”

Somewhat relaxed by Swakhammer’s attitude, if not his appearance, Rector said, “That’d be fine, if you don’t mind showing me. I’ve only been there once, and I wasn’t half awake yet.”

“All right, then. Hey, that’s a real nice satchel you got there.”

Oh yes. Huey had said something about it being one of Swakhammer’s. “I understand it’s one of yours,” he said—might as well play it straight, for there was no arguing now. “I appreciate you letting me hang on to it. Or … Huey said you wouldn’t mind.”

“Yeah, I don’t care. Got a bunch of them. Scavenged them out of an old army post years ago. Can’t say enough for the Union’s craftsmanship; they sure do make good bags. I think those things would survive … well, shit. They survive in here, don’t they? That’s a recommendation for ’em. They ought to advertise it. They’d sell ’em by the pound. Come on, I’ll take you back to the fort.”