Page 34 of As You Wake, Break the Shell

“Why does everyone think I’m a cop all of a sudden?”

“Who else thinks you’re a cop?”

“Never mind. Look, it’s just . . . shitty. Spike is a shitty thing to sell to people, and I kinda think only shitty people would do that.”

“Okay, well, it’s not your life.”

“It better not be yours, either.”

“See? Cop.”

“Please tell me you’re not fucking this guy.”

“Cora, oh my god—”

Cora rubbed her eyes. If Lydia had managed to tune in to the game, Cora was now missing it. “So what happened?”

Twig sighed again. “Avery told Gaby that Scooter sells spike, and Gaby freaked out, and she kicked Scooter out, and since he’s my friend—just my friend—”

“She kicked you out, too.”

Twig was quiet. She did not meet Cora’s eyes. “Yeah.”

Cora looked skyward with a profound lack of surprise. “Christ, Twig—”

“I know, okay? I know. I’m sorry.”

The pause that followed hung heavy. This was the third time this fucking year that Twig had lost her home, and every time, every fucking time, it was for some idiotic reason that of course was never Twig’s fault, and every time, every fucking time, Cora put her up and helped her find another place. Every time! And this last place had been pretty okay, Cora had thought. It had been clean and close to the ferry and the landlady seemed nice and—rrrrgh, goddammit. She was of half a mind to tell Twig to turn around and go find a public bunkhouse. Yes, bunkhouses were a rough scene, and no, Cora didn’t want Twig to end up in a place like that, but maybe a gross, sad situation was the kick in the pants Twig needed to get her shit together. Maybe she’d even learn how to keep a job for more than four months, who knew?

Twig stared at the floor. Puddles of rainwater collected around her boots. Most of her face was covered, and she wasn’t making a sound, but behind her goggles, Twig was losing the fight against tears. She looked like she’d already cried a lot that day. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

Goddammit.

Cora let out one prolonged exhale all the way over to the front desk, where Red was doing a very good job of pretending that he hadn’t been listening to the entire conversation. “I’m going to have a guest for a few days,” she said.

Red gestured at his computer monitor. “I already filled out the forms,” he said neutrally.

Cora leaned against the wall as Twig disappeared into the airlock. A series of mechanical clunks, thunks, and whirrs began as the kid was dusted with base powder to neutralize the rain, misted down with clean water to get rid of the bad water and any globs of wet ash, dusted a second time, and blown clean with a big fan. She stepped out of the other side and began to disrobe, stuffing her protective gear into one of the guest cubbies.

Red cleared his throat, and Cora glanced his way. He’d placed a plastic-wrapped pair of disposable indoor shoes on the desk. Size five and a half, like always.

“I swear this is the last time,” Cora muttered to him as she picked up the pack of shoes.

“Mhm,” Red said, every bit as neutral as before. “Sure.”

Twig swung her backpack around to the front as she approached, and before Cora could say another word, Twig unzipped the main pouch and pulled out a somewhat crushed take-out box with a red-and-yellow label Cora recognized immediately. Pluto’s, it read. Raft seven.

“I brought you curly fries,” Twig said with a conciliatory look.

Cora sighed for the thousandth time as she traded the shoes for the box filled with her favorite menu item from a favorite café. Goddammit. She cuffed Twig lightly upside the head, then put her arm around her shoulder. “Come on, dipshit,” she said. “Let’s get you sorted.”

“Welcome back, Twig,” Red said. He pushed a tablet toward her, but didn’t hand over the stylus yet. “You know the drill.”

Twig gave a nod and began to recite. “Four nights max, don’t be loud after ten, no getting shit-faced, no bothering anybody who lives here full-time, and keep the bathrooms nice.”

“And if you go into any of the—”

“If I go into any of the preflight spaces, I’m out forever, yep.”