They hurry us through the rain to the wreck
of the S410—Ellington at the head of our small troupe, then Parker
grumbling about the weather to Shanley, who shields his eyes with
one hand and keeps his head down as he walks. Maclin is next, the
roll of his hips like the lope of a wolf on the prowl. I don’t like
that man, there’s something slick about him, something I just can’t
put my finger on and I tell myself I don’t want to find out
what it is, I don’t care that much. I walk behind him, trying to
keep some distance between us—the last thing I need is for someone
to stop up ahead and I’ll run smack into him, I don’t want that at
all.
Dylan walks beside me, holding onto the
sleeve of my jumpsuit. His fingers are cold where they rest against
my wrist, and I want to take his han
