With my back to the building, I set down the beer and take out the phone. Dim the brightness. Pull up a private browser. Enter the numbers. 3 . . . 8591 . . . 157 . . . 1269. I can picture each one as I tap it, written in tiny script taped to the pad in the cabin.

Not a single result comes up.

I stare at the screen, wondering how that’s even possible. I check the numbers, but they’re correct. I try searching tracking numbers—UPS, FedEx, the post office—and then bar codes. Bank routing numbers. Latitude, longitude.

Nothing.

I wipe the history and close the browser, mind churning. But I’ve been gone too long already.

I grab my beer and head toward the back of the building, from where I can circle around to the entrance on the other side unseen from the sidewalk—or the apartments across the street. I have no intention of staying here or migrating to the Limit. As soon as I give Keri back her phone, I’m out of here.

Just as I round the corner I stop short. Two men stand in hunched conversation less than fifteen feet in front of me, barely illuminated by the lone light on the back of the building. Great. I’m inadvertently within range of a drug deal.

The one facing away from me is talking too low for me to hear. But his gestures are quick and emphatic, the dark jacket stretching with each movement across broad shoulders.

The other is Luka.

So he’s not at his place with some chick but scoring weed instead—from a guy he owes money to, by the look of it. I’m tempted to walk right past them, let him know I see what’s going on. But the last thing I need is trouble.

Just then Luka’s eyes meet mine. What am I supposed to do now? I have no desire to talk to him. But if I stalk off, I’ll look like I actually give a crap.

Rather than register surprise, however, his gaze returns to the guy as though he never saw me. A few seconds later he says something and gestures over his shoulder, then loops an arm around the guy like they’re old drinking buddies and walks the other way.

I watch them disappear around the corner.

Meanwhile, I’m standing with a beer in one hand and Keri’s phone in the other, trying to figure out how I’m going to get it back to her so I can leave.

I stride around the building to the entrance, past the clot of smokers sociably bumming cigarettes off one another. Just as I reach the short steps to the door, I spot Luka near the sidewalk. He’s jerking his thumb toward the street, hand still on the other guy’s back. It’s like he’s trying to steer him out of here, and can’t do it fast enough.

Fine with me.