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Meridian Six leaned over a large book and read by the light of a single candle.
    She looked up just as I was making the decision to back out quietly. I froze, unsure whether she’d be angry or ambivalent about my presence.
    “Couldn’t sleep?” she said, her voice scratchy with exhaustion.
    I shook my head and took a tentative step inside the room. When she didn’t tell me to get out or shoot me a disgusted look, I walked the rest of the way to the table. “What are you reading?”
    She sighed and tipped back in the chair with her arms behind her head. The movement made the fabric of her shirt tighten across her breasts and a sharp spear of lust stabbed my groin. I cleared my throat and moved behind a stack of books, pretending to read the title of the topmost cover.
    “It’s a book of poetry.”
    I looked up quickly. Her expression was too blank to not be a disguise for deeper emotion. “Anything good?”
    The corner of her mouth turned up. “Don’t understand most of it. But there’s this one—” She cut herself off, as if she suddenly realized she’d been about to reveal something she’d rather keep hidden.
    “Can I read it?”
    She shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”
    I pulled the book toward me, putting a finger between the pages so I could close the cover and read it. “ The Chicago Poems by Carl Sandberg,” I read aloud. “Never heard of him. Was he famous?”
    She shook her head. “Does it matter?” A catch in her voice made me look up. My vision had adjusted to the dark, and now I could finally see an unusual brightness in her eyes—the sheen of tears.
    “I guess not,” I said. Our eyes locked and held for a few moments, and it felt like something passed between us, but I was too confused and tired and nervous to understand it.
    The poem gave me the excuse I needed to back out of that look. I read the poem out loud, haltingly, because it had been too long since I’d read anything out loud to anyone.

    T hey Will Say
    Of my city the worst that men will ever say
    is this:
    You took little children away from the sun
    and the dew,
    And the glimmers that played in the grass
    under the great sky,
    And the reckless rain; you put them between walls
    To work, broken and smothered, for bread and wages
    To eat dust in their throats and die empty-
    hearted
    For a little handful of pay on a few Saturday
    nights.

    B y the time I made it to the end, my voice burned against my throat and my eyes stung. I kept my head down, looking at the words that had unraveled the fragile grip I’d had on my emotions, on my fear. I bit my lip because I was ashamed for her to see me cry.
    “Zed,” she said softly.
    I swallowed hard and nodded, but did not look up.
    “I will help you get them back.”
    The words were said quietly, like a prayer. I didn’t dare look up because I knew if I did I would cry like a baby, and I would never be able to look her in the eye again. So I just nodded, closed the book softly, briefly placed a hand on the cover, and walked out of the room.

Ten
    B ravo

    M atri woke me just after dusk. Her face leaned close to mine and her foul breath invaded my nostrils. I tried to shy away, but in the small bunk there was nowhere to hide from the stench of unwashed body and rotten teeth.
    “Wake the children,” she said. “It’s time to work.”
    I nodded, as much to end the conversation as to comply. Rising as quickly as I could in the cold, I went from bunk to bunk, waking the children. Mica gave me the most problem, but he wasn’t yet used to the reverse schedule kept in the camp. In the Badlands, we kept to a typical human schedule—rising early and sleeping not long after dark. But here, we existed at the whims of the vampires, which meant we’d be up all night and expected to grab as much sleep as we could during the day.
    Once the youngs were lined up, Matri took over. She paced in front of them like a general inspecting his troops. “Mica will be with me today. The rest of you will