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bad as stealing in these parts. But if I could just sneak out and get back without anyone seeing me, I could simply sit on my findings until Collection Day rolls around.
    I contemplate waiting a while, to give the hysteria time to die down a bit. Hardly anyone ever scavenges in the Dead Woods, so there’s a fair chance that anything similar to my little machine will stay untouched. But I can’t count on that. Has Mal already pieced it together that I had not, in fact, come from the Southern Plains that day, like I said? What about one of our eavesdroppers? No; if there’s anything else out there like my machine, I need to go now, before anyone else goes looking.
    I whip myself out of bed as quickly as I can without waking Mica. Tying my hair back in a tight ponytail, I shimmy into an old pair of dark cargos and zip my jacket over a threadbare t-shirt. It’s a risk to venture out so soon after the rain, so I want to make sure my skin is well covered. I pull a pair of gloves out of a drawer and shove them into my pocket.
    I tiptoe out of my bedroom and dart over to the kitchen table with my boots gripped tightly in one hand. A glance in the direction of Mica’s room reveals his door still ajar in its standard position. The thought that he still won’t close it, as mad as he is at me, simultaneously warms and wrenches my heart.
    I reach over to unhook my bag from its usual resting place but pause before removing it. The electric blue sack, while great for avoiding being run over in the dark, is definitely unfit for secret excursions. I look around for an alternative and, through his half-open door, I notice Mica’s worn black backpack hanging from the back of his desk chair.
    I creep in, tossing a furtive glance at his snoring form: hair sticking up on one side, a growing drool spot on his pillow. I quietly pull out the contents of his bag: two textbooks, a notebook, some pens, and a handful of comic books. I smile as I peek at the cover of one of the comics—a giant, floating alien waving its tentacles as it descends on a green planet—before stalking back out of the room. I’ll be back long before Mica wakes up and notices I’ve taken his bag.
    I take a canteen out of the fridge and toss it into the bag, along with a small flashlight. With one strap slung over my shoulder and my boots still in my hand, I steal out the front door and close it behind me as gently as possible.
    I quickly tiptoe down the stairs. The air outside is brisk and still. There is no movement on the street. I quickly bend over to put on my shoes, sheltered under the apartment building’s awning, and inspect the area around me. Most of the ground seems dry enough to walk on, though I can still see a few steaming puddles that have collected where the gravel is uneven. Easy enough to avoid. I take a deep breath and silently hopscotch across the road in the moonlight.
    The route to the southern wall takes three times longer than usual. With every other step, I find myself looking behind me, but by the time I finally reach the wall, I’m confident I haven’t been followed. I pull the gloves out of my pocket and put them on to protect myself against any residual water that has pooled in the wall’s cracks, then begin to climb. As I scramble up, the moonlight casts an eerie glow on the black brick, making me feel uncomfortably visible. My anxiety level is high as I reach the top, and I climb down the other side without checking the ground below. My boot lands in a shallow puddle of rainwater, splashing up a cascade of droplets that land on the arms of my jacket with a sizzle.
    “Augh!” I yell out, then bite my lip and mentally curse myself for making noise. I leap out of the puddle and instinctively wipe down my arms with my gloved hands. Drawing a deep breath, I survey the damage. Fortunately, the thick soles of my new boots seem virtually unscathed, and there are only a few light scorch marks on the sleeves of my jacket. My gloves, on the