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out of the way and lie low, but Max was stupid and was ruled by petty appetites. During Seth’s brief stint as ship’s Captain, more than once he’d reprimanded Max for being drunk while on duty. Max had even broken a little boy’s arm pulling him away from the blades of a combine. If Max had been sober, he probably could have saved the kid without hurting him. Seth had let it go at the time but lived to regret it later.
    The first thing Max would probably want after getting out of the brig was alcohol. The distillery wouldn’t be such a bad hiding place, actually, because distilling grain alcohol would be the last thing Kieran Alden would allow the crew to do. Probably no one went there.
    Seth took the stairs two at a time until he reached level 7, then sneaked into the corridor just outside the granary bays. There was no one in the corridor, but he could hear the voices of people working to harvest the wheat. A film of dust from the harvest had drifted through the doors to coat the floor of the corridor. Seth slid along the wall and ducked into the distillery, painfully aware that he was leaving footprints. He must be leaving traces of himself everywhere.
    The sharp smell of alcohol stung his nostrils and made his eyes water. The lights were dim in this small room, which resembled a factory. Masses of tentacle tubing snaked along the walls and over the ceiling. A complicated system of beakers and carafes covered the metal countertops. Seth paused, listening, and he saw droplets still clinging to the spigot of the gin still. Gin was Max’s poison of choice. He was definitely here.
    “Max,” Seth whispered, “it’s me, Seth.”
    Nothing stirred, but Seth could sense him here, listening.
    “We’re in the same boat, Max. It’s not like I’m going to turn you in,” Seth whispered. “And I don’t want to hide out together, either. I just want to talk.”
    Still no answer.
    Seth crept down the narrow passage between the countertops, eyes on the floor. When he reached the end of the room, he found a circle of what looked like crumbs.
    “Max, come on. We can help each other.”
    “I don’t need you,” a gruff voice muttered.
    Seth turned and saw Max crouched inside a stainless steel cabinet, bleary eyed, head wobbling on top of his meaty neck. Max was only fourteen but he was as physically powerful as a grown man.
    “Jesus, you’re drunk.” This was going to be easy.
    “Just celebrating.”
    “What if you need to run?”
    “They won’t find me.”
    “If they do, there’s nowhere to go. You’ll be trapped.”
    Max thought about it for a minute, his bloodshot eyes swimming in their sockets, then finally eased himself out of his cabinet. When Max stood, Seth was assaulted by a strong odor of gin and stale perspiration. “Where sh-should we go?” he slurred.
    “Somewhere we can talk,” Seth said, and grabbed hold of the idiot’s elbow to steady him.
    “Wait,” Max said, reaching toward the row of bottles that lined the shelves above him.
    Seth jerked him away from it and pulled him to the doorway of the distillery. When he was sure the way was clear, he pulled the weaving Max along the corridor to the outer stairwell and dragged him down several flights until they reached the orchards. The trees would be in their winter dormancy by now, so there would be no reason for anyone to come here. Seth pulled Max into the back corner behind a thicket of blueberry bushes. The boys crouched on the cold soil, hands tucked under their arms for warmth, and Seth waited for Max to catch his breath.
    Max didn’t look good. There were bluish circles under his eyes, and the skin around his mouth seemed especially pale.
    “You doing okay?” Seth said, though he felt no sympathy. He deftly turned on his father’s computer and enabled the audio recording software. He’d been worried about doing this in front of Max, but the boy was so drunk, he didn’t notice.
    “Got a cramp in my gut,” Max said, and doubled