“You have to do better than that,” I said. “Promise me you’ll try.”
“I promise.”
“And you should try doing a little better at keeping what you think you know to yourself.”
“I told no one what I suspected.”
I looked over my shoulder and saw Fremmy and Stooks side by side, staring at us from their cell, and understood how the word had gotten around. Some stories （as you probably know yourself） are just too good not to pass on.
I was still inventorying my various aches and pains when the four bolts were drawn. In came Pursey, with a large slab of cake on a metal plate. Chocolate cake, from the look of it. My stomach cried out. He took it down the corridor to the cell Ammit shared with Gully.
Ammit reached through the bars and pinched off a good-sized hunk. He popped it into his mouth, then said （with obvious regret）， “Give the rest to Charlie. He beat me with the stick. Beat me like a redheaded stepchild.”
Not what he said; what I heard. Something my mother used to say after gin rummy with her friend Hedda. Sometimes Hedda beat her like a redheaded stepchild, sometimes like a rented mule, sometimes a big bass drum. There are phrases you never forget.
Pursey returned the way he’d come, the cake still on the plate but with that good-sized chunk gone. Longing eyes followed it. The slice was so big that Pursey had to turn the plate sideways to get it between the cell bars. I held it against the plate with my hand to keep it from falling to the floor, then licked off the frosting. My God, it was so good—I can taste it still.
I started to take a bite （promising myself I’d give some to Hamey, maybe even a bit to the Comedy Twins next door）， then hesitated. Pursey was still standing in front of the cell. When he saw me looking at him, he put the heel of his poor melted hand against his gray forehead.
And bent his knee.
5
I slept and dreamed of Radar.
She was trotting along Kingdom Road toward the supply shed where we’d spent the night before entering the city. Every now and then she stopped and looked for me, whining. Once she almost turned around to go back, but then went on. Good dog, I thought. Get safe, if you can.
The moons broke through the clouds. The wolves began to howl, right on cue. Radar stopped trotting and broke into a run. The howls got louder, closer. In the dream I could see low shadows slinking to either side of Kingdom Road. The shadows had red eyes. This is where the dream turns into a nightmare, I thought, and told myself to wake up. I didn’t want to see a pack of wolves—two packs, one on each side—burst from the streets and alleys of the destroyed suburbs and attack my friend.
The dream thinned. I could hear Hamey groaning. Fremmy and Stooks were murmuring together in the next cell. Before I could get all the way back to reality, a wonderful thing happened. A cloud darker than the night rolled toward Radar. When it flew across the racing moons, the cloud turned to lace. It was the monarchs. They had no business flying at night, they should have been roosting, but that’s dreams for you. The cloud reached my dog and hovered a few feet above her as she ran. Some actually fluttered down onto her head, back, and newly powerful haunches, their wings slowly opening and closing. The wolves stopped howling, and I woke up.
Hamey was crouched over the waste hole in the corner, the rags of his pants puddled around his feet. He was clutching his belly.
“Shut it, can’t you?” Eye called from his side of the corridor. “Some are trying to sleep.”
“You shut it,” I called back, low. I went to Hamey. “How bad is it?”
“Nah, nah, not bad.” His sweaty face said differently. Suddenly there was an explosive fart and a plop. “Ah, gods, better. That’s better.”
The stink was atrocious, but I grabbed his arm so he wouldn’t fall over while he yanked up what remained of his britches.
“Oh my, who died?” Fremmy asked.
“I think Hamey’s asshole finally fell out,” Stooks added.
“Cease,” I said. “Both of you. There’s nothing funny about sickness.”
They shut up immediately. Stooks started to put his palm to his forehead.
“Nah, nah,” I said （you pick up the lingua franca fast when you’re jailed）。 “Don’t do that. Not ever.”
I helped Hamey back to his pallet. His face was haggard and pale. The thought of him fighting anyone in a so-called Fair One, even Dommy with his weak lungs, was ridiculous.
No, wrong word. Horrible. Like asking a parakeet to fight a Rottweiler.
“Food don’t take to me. Told you. I used to be strong, worked twelve hours a day in the Brookey Sawmill, sometimes fourteen, and never begged an extra rest period. Then… I don’t know what happened. Mushrooms? Nah, prob’ly not. Swallowed a bad bug, most likely. Now food don’t take to me. It wasn’t bad at first. Now it is. Do you know what I hope?”