Presley’s mom gave Presley a sharp look, then indicated the kid, who looked big enough to be a year older than Presley, even though he looked young for other reasons. Awkwardly, Presley gave the guy the lightest of punches on the arm to get his attention, then motioned toward the door. The punch was because it was the bare minimum, least committed of all ways she could get his attention, and she doubted he would hear her if she spoke.

She didn’t really feel like talking anyway. A lump in her throat, her stomach a heavy kind of ticklish with anxiety, she stole a glance at the red glow that was overtaking the city, then pushed the door open.

The building was some survey site, three stories tall, boxlike, made of the same prefab segments as a lot of other buildings, and covered in brick-colored spackle to hide the seams. Inside, it was exceptionally boring: every single room was like the back room in the library, which had the bare minimum of furniture, where people could have meetings, or they were like the dismal little office that the vice principal had but never used.

Now it was surrounded by tents. Furniture had been moved and stacked, and three families were crammed into rooms that should have housed one family at most.

That was just for those who had their own places to go. Presley walked fast, trusting the child of the freakout woman to follow her. Past a conference room with the table pushed into a corner, sleeping bags and blankets forming a grid on the floor. The people in that room were gathered at the window, watching the city.

The kid caught up to her, his footsteps heavy. She glanced at him.

“I’m Presley,” she said.

“Caden.”

“You’re… thirteen?” she guessed.

“Yeah. You?”

“Twelve.”

He didn’t look thirteen. Even if he was older, he had that vibe, a kind of softness around the edges, that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Like maybe his mom had chosen his haircut, not him. There wasn’t any product in his hair, and it was cut to a length where parts of it stuck up and parts lay flat. Or maybe he was still shopping at places kids bought clothes, not teens: sweatpants, monochrome running shoes, and a monochrome top without any branding or anything. Or maybe it was in the expression on his face, how little he seemed to connect to this situation, or how willing he’d been to go with her.