“I need to go up now, though.”

He fiddled with another strand of hair and eyed her curiously. “Okay, Anna Mistletoe.”

“It’s just Mistletoe.”

“Two conditions. One: you tell me why you’re in such a hurry to get topside. Two: whatever you have to do up there, you take me with you.”

“One: I can’t. Two: I also can’t.”

“Thought you’d say that. It’s a guy, then?”

This caught her off guard. “What? No, it’s not—ma buh, Sliv, this has nothing to do with…” She sighed. “It’s not about a guy.” She thought for a moment, chewing her bottom lip. “Do you know where you come from?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. The gear hand rested comfortably in the crook of his elbow. His sleeveless black shirt exposed the tattoo of a melting clock on his right shoulder.

“Same place as you,” he said. “Little Saigon.”

“Uh-huh. And you know who your parents are?”

“Sort of.”

She stared at him. He looked away.

“Okay,” he said. “You’re tracking down your people.”

I’m tracking down myself, she thought—but said, “That good enough for you?”

“Yeah,” he said, after a while. “That’s good enough for me.”

*   *   *

The entrance to the airlock at the edge of Rio II was strewn with crumpled cans, greasy blankets, and soiled clothes. No wonder this place had a gnat problem. Mistletoe rested a hand on Nelson’s handlebar and listened to the familiar subcanopy sounds, isolating each specific curse, laugh, and engine roar in case it was the last time she ever heard it. She didn’t know what scared her the most: flash-coolant or the chance that she’d never see these streets again. She thought of Ambrose, in the same situation, swapping his topside life for a subcanopy one.

“The scoot stays,” Sliv said.

“I figured.”

“Won’t fit,” he explained.

“I said I figured.”

She let go of the handlebar, thinking of all the afternoons she’d spent tipping Nelson through the trapdoor of her balcony, tearing down the stack, bouncing into the streets. The day Jiri had brought him home, he’d been gleaming, despite the missing chunks of paint and tarnished chrome. She felt like she was ditching her best friend.

“We’ll take care of it,” he said.

“Him,” she corrected. “And don’t just rip him up for the parts, either.”

“Watchmaker’s honor.”

“Wait! You know what? There’s this street kid from Little Saigon—Shampoo. Ask around, you’ll find him. Give him the scoot.”

“Shampoo?”

“Tell him it’s from Mistletoe. Or just give it to him. It doesn’t matter.”

Sliv studied her, then nodded.

They watched a group of topsiders in green ESC Council Engineer jackets mill about the entrance. The engineers finished their drinks and tossed the empty cans on the ground. Mistletoe narrowed her eyes.

“They think it’s one giant trash can down here.”