She used the stick-tack still on the back of the photo and pressed it to one button on the dress-curtain. One step toward making this crowded, noisy, bright, unhappy place a little more like home.

Caden’s seat creaked as he leaned closer, looking. She almost took the picture down in response.

“Holy shitballs. I recognize two of those people. So you’re a fangirl. I was wondering what was with the hair.”

“I’m not a fangirl,” she told Caden, bristling. “I met them. I email them and talk to them sometimes. I knew them before they were a team. I keep track of them.”

“You realize you just described a fangirl? ‘I knew them before they were big’ is hyper-fangirl.”

Presley turned and stared at the guy, not sure of how to reply. She was secretly glad she had already come to the conclusion that he was just a kid, even if he was older than her, or else she might have picked up one of the chairs and tried to clobber him.

Probably not. The risk she wouldn’t be strong or fast enough was too big, and it was tied with twine.

Even if she wanted to say something, there was a commotion halfway down the room. She looked, making sure it wasn’t an emergency. The Sleeper’s storm coming closer, or something with the red lights. It looked more likely it was an argument or a fight. People had gathered in the stairwell and the crowd at the foot of the stairs was thick enough they couldn’t get all the way down.

“Excuse me!” she heard the voice. “Excuse me!”

The noise of the sheer number of people drowned out the other words. Way more than one person for every sleeping spot. She sat up at attention, then stood, propping one foot up on the chair and trying to get to a position to see above the crowd.

The person at the other end of the hall beat her to it, getting help to climb up onto a tall stack of food supplies, all in waterproof plastic containers. “Excuse me! Hello! This is important! Thank you!”

The noise died down to a low murmur.

He was tan like he’d used a tanning bed, and his hair was blonde. She thought he might be a superhero, looking at him. He wore a shirt fancier than most businessmen would wear, still in the button-up style, and a tie he’d loosened. His sleeves were rolled up.

He spoke, his voice raised to carry across the room, “I know phones and internet aren’t working consistently and the people you’d call if you could obviously aren’t in their offices. I’ve just made the drive, as many others are doing, to let you all know what’s happened.”

Happened, not happening.

The low murmurs died out.