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for Albert, having to do what he said or go hungry.
    Albert traveled with a bodyguard now. The bodyguard’s name was Jamal. Jamal carried an automatic rifle over his shoulder. He had a massive hunting knife in his belt. And a club that was an oak chair leg with spikes driven through it to make a sort of mace.
    Unlike everyone else Albert carried no weapon himself. Jamal was weapon enough.
    “Let’s go, Jamal.”
    Albert led the way toward the beach. Jamal as usual kept a few paces back, head swiveling left and right, glowering, ready for trouble.
    Albert bypassed the plaza—there were always kids there and they always wanted something from Albert: a job, a different job, credit, something.
    It didn’t work. Two littles, Harley and Janice, moved right in front of him as he walked briskly.
    “Mr. Albert? Mr. Albert?” Harley said.
    “Just Albert’s fine,” Albert said tersely.
    “Me and Janice are thirsty.”
    “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any water on me.” He managed a tight smile and moved on. But now Janice was crying and Harley was pleading.
    “We used to live with Mary and she gave us water. But now we have to live with Summer and BeeBee and they said we have to have money.”
    “Then I guess you’d better earn some money,” Albert said. He tried to soften it, tried not to sound harsh, but he had a lot on his mind and it came out sounding mean. Now Harley started to cry, too.
    “If you’re thirsty, stop crying,” Albert snapped. “What do you think tears are made of?”
    Reaching the beach Albert scanned the work site. It looked like a salvage yard. A five-hundred-gallon oval propane tank lay abandoned on the sand. A scorched hole in one side.
    A second, slightly smaller tank should have been resting on steel legs right at the water’s edge. Instead it was tipped over. A copper pipe stuck out of the top. This pipe was crimped tightly over a slightly smaller pipe that bent back toward the ground. A third, still narrower pipe was duct-taped heavily in place and this pipe reached the wet sand.
    In theory at least, this crude, jury-rigged contraption was a still. The principle was simple enough: boil salt water, let the steam rise into a pipe, then cool the steam. What dribbled out of the end would be drinkable water.
    Easy in theory. Almost impossible to do practically. Especially now that some fool had knocked it over.
    Albert’s heart sank. Soon Harley and Janice wouldn’t be the only ones begging for water. The gasoline supply was down to a few hundred gallons at the station. No gas: no water truck. No water truck: no water.
    Even worse, the tiny Lake Evian in the hills was drying up. There had been no rain since the coming of the FAYZ. Kids knew there was a plan to relocate everyone to Lake Evian when the last of the gas was gone; what they didn’t realize was that things were far worse than that.
    The first tank, the burned one, had been an earlier effort to create a still. Albert had tried to get Sam to boil the water using his powers. Unfortunately Sam couldn’t dial it down enough to heat without destroying.
    This new effort would require a fire beneath the tank. Which would mean crews of kids to rip lumber from unused houses. Which might make the whole thing more trouble than it was worth.
    The crew was lounging. Tossing pebbles at the surf, trying to get them to skip.
    Albert marched over to them, his loafers filling with sand. “Hey,” he snapped. “What happened here?”
    The four kids—none older than eleven—looked guilty.
    “It was like this when we got here. I think the wind knocked it over.”
    “There is no wind in the FAYZ, you . . .” He stopped himself from saying, “moron.” Albert had a certain reputation for being in control of himself. He was the closest thing they had to an adult.
    “I hired you to dig a hole, not play around,” Albert said.
    “It’s hard,” one said. “It keeps filling up.”
    “I know it’s hard. It won’t get any easier. And if you