A wrought iron fence enclosed the winter-brown lawn of a morality hall. A few ragged children played on the dead grass, watched by three young women wrapped in layer upon threadbare layer of crimson. The girls looked only a few years older than Grey or Marina.
Whit started to move away, searching porches and bare side yards for someone who looked like a ration dealer. A figure, a boy, emerged from a doorway facing the morality hall. He staggered across the street, let himself into the gate, and edged into the shadow of the building. He stood no taller than the women, but at closer range his face showed age beyond the fifteen years Whit had guessed. The women exchanged glances, then one ambled toward the young man. He listed in her direction, one toe dragging as though he couldn't raise his leg to complete a step.
The boy and woman stopped a dangerous two feet from each other, protected by the meager shadow of a barren tree. The woman glanced toward the tower then around the deserted street. Her gaze rested on Whit but moved on. The two other women stepped closer to the children, turning their backs to the conversation across the gravel plot.
Whit's breath caught when the woman reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out a potion bottle. The young man thrust a wad of money at her, snatched the ration, and stumbled away.
Stomach heaving, Whit turned from the scene.
Of course. Of course it would be the mothers. He breathed through his nose, lips clamped. No deputies swarmed onto the scene, but Whit suffered a vision of the black-garbed agents dragging his own mother away. He bent and heaved without relief.
When his pulse slowed, he crept back the way he'd come. A stripe on his lower back stung. If he focused on it, the line of pain blocked out what he'd just seen.
On his left, tan buildings three stories high lined the block. Tenements? Two men exited the door of the farthest one and stood arguing on the stoop. Whit crossed the street and continued up the walkway, passing a five-and-dime store and ducking under the canopy jutting away from a boarded-up building.
He stopped in the shade, eyes fuzzy from the bright sun.
Fingers closed on his arm and yanked him to an open door. The figure ahead of him was dark-haired, but once inside the building Whit's vision blurred in the lamplight.
“What the codes, Ration Boy?” A high-pitched voice rang in his ears. “You got a death wish or something?”
“Yeah, he does,” a lower voice growled.
Whit's sight adjusted and a weight in his chest lifted as a pair of tawny eyes sparkled at him. Marina wore trousers beneath a dark brown frock coat, and her hair was tucked under a bowler hat, giving her pointed chin an even sharper angle.
Maverick prodded him in the rib, and Whit dragged his gaze from the boy's sister.
“You following us?” Maverick shoved closer. “You some kind of deputy recruit?”
Whit splayed his hands. “No, man. I'm here because I left my potion bottleâ”
“With me,” Marina finished.
“Right.” Whit's gaze darted between their faces. “Did you hear about Burge?”
Maverick nodded and Marina's lips pinched together.
“That's why we're hereâ”
“Shh.” Maverick made a small lunge toward his sister.
She rolled her eyes at him. “Whit's here scrounging on the South Edge because of me.”
“I'm not in a facility because of you.” Whit nodded at her raised-eyebrow stare. “Up at the outpost, they searched me and didn't find anything because you had my bottle.”
“Holy Chemist knees, Whit. You are the luckiest potion head I ever met.”
“I've got stripes that say otherwise.” Despite his serious words, Marina's vernacular dragged a smile onto his face.
Movement behind a door across the lobby killed the smile. He stiffened. “So what's going on here?”
The twins were silent.
Whit stared them down, and Marina worried her lower lip with one tooth. His train of thought derailed for a moment, but he pulled his concentration back to the tiled lobby with its grime-covered chairs and dusty curtains.
“Well, with Burge out, we gotta find a way to get potion for the camp,” Marina said.
A man's head appeared around the door leading off of the lobby. “Who is he?”
Marina whipped around. “A friend. He's a friend, Miller.”
“Well, get your friend out of here.” The head disappeared back into the room.
“Let's go.” Marina snagged Whit's sleeve.
Maverick blocked the door. “It's safer if I go with him.”
She clutched Whit's arm a second longer then dropped her hand. Whit scowled at Maverick's back as the boy reached for the door. “I'll see you on Saturdayâif I get a bottle, that is,” he said over his shoulder to Marina.
“Oh, Mav'll get you a bottle. Just be careful, you hear?” She smiled and zipped away to the back room.
“So what's with the mysterious meeting?” Whit caught up to Maverick as he strode away from the building.
The boy pivoted, eyes flashing. “What's with the meeting? I met you four days ago, City Boy.” He held up four fingers to emphasize his point. “I don't trust you.”
“I can see that. But your sister does.”
“Marina's a potion head.” Maverick turned and started walking. “I wish she'd given your bottle back that day you came up. Then you'd be in a facility instead of messing about with me.”
Red haze burst into Whit's vision. He shoved the lanky kid square in the back.
Maverick rounded on him, fists raised.
Whit planted his feet. His voice was ice. “You have no idea what you're talking about.”
“Oh, I don't? You think one striping is worse than starving every day of your life?” Maverick mimicked his sister's
voice. “Oh, poor Whit. His back looks like train tracks. Oh, he's so brave.”
Whit hurled a fist toward Maverick, but the kid sidestepped and landed a punch on his jaw. Pain splintered from the contact point, sending spikes of light through Whit's vision. The blow reopened the gash on his cheek. He dove to the right, crashing into Maverick and staggering toward the ground. He came up with his arm locked around the kid's skinny neck.
It was Maverick's scrawniness that penetrated the fog. Boney fingers clawed at Whit's arm. He relaxed his hold. A kick to his shin sent him stumbling back. He held his hands up.
“All right. I don't want to fight, man. I'm sorry I hit you.”
“You didn't.” Maverick spat into the street.
“Whatever.” Whit gulped in air. His stripes burned, and the fear of getting caught by deputies mixed with the rush of the brawl.
“Look.” Whit took a step closer, hands still raised to signal peace. “I'll prove myself to you. You don't trust me? Fine. I'll show you I won't bring harm to you or the refugees.”
Maverick's stance lost a measure of defiance. “Why? Why have you appointed yourself our new savior?”
“Because Steinar's daughter saved me. He's gone because of me.”
The other boy's face twitched, but he didn't press further. “Okay. Make me believe you, then.” He turned his back to Whit and sauntered off. “We'll see what the dealers make of you.”
Back to the dealers. Marina said they liked her. Relief mixed with aversion. Of course the mothers dealing ration had a soft spot for her. But his stomach turned at the thought of endangering the young women, even though they needed the money.
He caught up and walked shoulder to shoulder with Maverick. “Hey, I don't want to do this at the morality hall.”
Maverick barked a laugh. “I'm not taking you to the mamas, City Boy. We're going to Cagey's.”
Minutes later, Whit studied a boardinghouse with crumbling masonry from behind a rubbish heap.
“If there's a raid or we get separated, make your way to the alley behind the cannery on Sand Street. Marina and I have a delivery truck hidden halfway up.”
A spark of respect for his companion flared. It'd take equal measures of ingenuity and guts to obtain a truck and drive it around Mercury in full view of deputies and Chemists alike. He'd take the risk, though. In a heartbeat.
Maverick did another scan of the street. A rickety wagon sat by the curb and an orange cat scurried down an alley. Half a block up, two old men sat outside a storefront, smoking pipes. No one went into the building they watched and no one came out. Maverick strolled from behind the crates of refuse and Whit followed. Just before they reached the door, Maverick halted, one hand raised.
“Don't take any of Cagey's mix. We only use it on the hospital cases. You're here for a bottle. That's it.”
Whit jerked his chin. “What's in the ration?”
“You don't want to know. You got money, right?”
Whit nodded.
Maverick swung the door open and they stepped onto a sagging wood floor.
The stench of vomit closed in. Whit's eyes watered and he backed toward the door.
Maverick said something, but Whit gagged and reeled.
He stumbled into the washroom at home. He'd been dreaming. He was confused. His mother lay on the floor, unconscious. Spots of yellow puke sprayed the walls, the commode, the floor.
Trails of pain along his back brought him back to the present. Maverick shook his shoulder.
“Suck it up, City Boy.”
Whit trained his eyes on the carpeted stairs. A flight led down to a basement level and another up to the floors above. A long hallway ahead of them ended in a glass door at the opposite end of the building.
“You ready?” Maverick's face popped into Whit's field of vision. A hint of concern made his eyes mirror Marina's.
“Yes, yes.” Whit shook off the memory and followed Maverick below ground.
Doors on either side of the hall were marked with 1A, 1B, 2A, 2B. They stopped before a door on the right with nothing but a 3 hanging above the peephole. Maverick rapped a pattern on the wood.
When the door swung open, the sickly sweet smell of potion mingled with the odor of vomit in the hallway. Whit wiped his nose.
A man in shirtsleeves with a hooked nose and small, round glasses scrutinized them. “Who've you brought to see me, Maverick?”
The man's tone twisted a hole in Whit's chest. He crossed his arms and found himself summoning counterfeit thoughts as though he faced Adante again.
Maverick offered a polite smile. “Cagey, this is Whit. He needs a bottle.”
Cagey smiled. The skin over his jaw shifted, dragging at the stripes on his neck. “Do come in then.” With a scarred hand, he motioned them into a space more cramped than a newly blasted drift deep in the mine. Light from a gas lamp flickered over dark shapes in the far corners. Whit peered into the shadows then looked away as one of the forms moved.
A stove sat against the wall on the right. Equipment, bottles, clear containers of a liquid he didn't recognize, and stacks of boxes, both empty and packed, crowded the floor space.
Maverick walked to a sagging couch and slung himself down, but Whit toed the dingy line of the Oriental rug covering the floor. If he stepped onto it, he'd lose something. He pictured his soul oozing out of him like a snaking line of smoke.
Cagey shuffled closer. Thin, greasy hair hung to the man's shoulders, failing to hide the raised lines on his neck. “This your first time, kid?”
Maverick answered for him. “He just needs a bottle. He lost his. No potion.”
“Ah.” Cagey whipped his head in Maverick's direction. “And what about you and your sister? Where is little Marina today?”
Maverick glared for a second and then offered an answer that didn't exactly fit the dealer's questions. “The camp's all good right now.”
“That so?” Cagey moved to the stove, turning sideways to slip between the walls of stuff.
Maverick rose, bouncing on the balls of his feet. The look he shot Whit was some kind of hint.
Whit took a step toward the kitchen. “Look, I have moneyâ”
Maverick let out a small groan.
“All I need is a bottle.”
The other boy joined Whit. “I brought him here because I know you've got plenty of extra supplies. And you're a good guy, Cagey. Marina and I know that.”
The slim man disappeared behind a stack of crates. When he returned he lifted a potion bottle up toward the dim lantern. The light picked up the slosh of liquid in the dark green glass.
Maverick skimmed low words out. “Just a bottle, Cagey.”
A gruesome smile split the dealer's face. “Oh, the bottle is his. After he takes the potion.”
Beside Whit, Maverick tensed.
“Sure thing.” Whit fished in his pocket. “Hand it over, and I'll take it later.”
Cagey chuckled. His eyes cut from Whit's face to Maverick's. “I don't think you're aware of my new business motto, Maverick. Leave no customer unsatisfied. I'd never dream of allowing a client to walk out my door without sampling the product first.”
At the word
door
, Maverick threw a look at the entryway behind them.
“I don't think so.” The dealer's quiet words froze the boy to the spot. Whit had the impression the man must know plenty to get Maverick and Marina locked away, or worse.
“I'll do it.” Whit's pulse pounded in his ears. His hand clenched as if the doorknob was already in his grasp.
Maverick sucked in a breath, but stayed quiet.
Cagey strolled the few feet between them and held the bottle up to Whit. Dark eyes leapt into his as though they could ferret out secrets.
Whit grasped the bottle and tilted it to his lips. Potion, sweeter than the Chemists' but with a tang of an unknown chemical, trickled down his throat.
It was done.
He thrust the cash at Cagey.
The dealer didn't bother to count it. He tucked the bills into his pocket and gave Whit a faint smile.
Whit smiled back. Tension flowed out of him. It was over. He had a bottle for tomorrow's ration run and for next Saturday's trip to the outpost. Maverick frowned next to him, but Whit nodded to Cagey and strode toward the door.