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says.
    “It’s plain. But it works.”
    “Are you saying I look nice?”
    His pale cheeks go pink. “Yes. I suppose I am saying that.”
    “Good. Because I’m wearing it no matter what you think. Now, let’s go to this damn party you say is so important.”

THE REMITTANCE MAN
    A BURNING ITCH lives on the flesh above Cael’s heart, below his shirt, but he can’t think about that now, no sir, because when he looked up and saw that rail-raft explode into splinters, he didn’t see Rigo at all—didn’t see him fall, didn’t see him tumble through the air like a poppet doll, didn’t see hide nor hair of him.
    Cael tries to get hard earth under his feet, but clumps of dirt crumble away, leaving his heels to skid on the slope. He grabs the cornstalk with his other hand, pulling himself up and hollering himself hoarse for Rigo—but just as he starts to holler, the auto-train goes past only ten feet to his right, and the roar of the metal beast drowns his voice like a farmer killing kittens in a washtub.
    Cael grits his teeth and struggles to stand on wobbly legs. The auto-train is a long, dark blur, a tar snake of great lengthand terrifying speed; by the time it’s gone Cael sees Lane on the other side of him, one hand cupped around his mouth and yelling for Rigo, the rifle held gingerly in his other hand.
    “I saw him hanging on,” Lane says, panicked.
    “He wouldn’t let go of the damn raft!” Cael bellows for his friend again.
    Together the two of them hurry onto the trestle, careful not to lose their balance, because there stands only a foot of construct separating them from a far drop into the murky river of corn slurry.
    “We shouldn’t have gone so fast,” Cael says. “Godsdamnit!”
    Lane shakes his head. “It’s my fault. My stupid idea. Shit!”
    The two of them call together.
    Rigo’s name, echoing out over the slurry canyon.
    Cael’s got the eye. Everyone knows it. He can spot things nobody else can—that’s why he made a fine scavenger back in the town of Boxelder, and he and his crew would’ve been top of the pops if it wasn’t for Boyland Barnes Jr. always playing havoc with their advantage.
    So when Cael looks down and scans the river and sees nothing, he gets worried. Rigo is gone. As if he never existed. As insubstantial and unreal as a soap bubble popped by a child’s finger.
    But then—
    A round shape bobbing in the slow-moving slurry. Heading south. The round shape turns like a log rolling over.
    Rigo’s face emerges.
    A pair of chubby hands waves before he’s lost again beneath the sliding muck.
    Cael barks, “He’s in the river!”
    “Cael!” Lane says, pointing to a narrow opening leading down to the river—a precarious path awaits: a short shelf of dry dirt supported by clusters of corn roots. Dangerous, but it’ll do.
    Cael bolts off the trestle and runs into the corn. He hears Lane crashing through the stalks behind him. The corn leaves twitch and swipe at him, leaving little, stinging paper cuts across his forearms and collarbone.
    That voice from the dream—
    Come to me, Cael .
    It crawls into his head like a fat earthworm.
    He pushes it out of his head as Lane hurries up next to him.
    Cael spots Rigo again. Arms flailing. Slurry falling off his hands in gloppy blobs. The two of them charge down the narrow path—the decline is steep, and Lane’s arms pinwheel as he struggles not to pitch forward.
    He’s got his eyes on Rigo, so he doesn’t see what’s at his feet. The toe of Cael’s boot clips on a bundle of corn roots popping out of the ground—“witch’s hair” is what they call such bundles, for they look like the dry and brittle hay-hair the Maize Witch is said to have on her old, haggard head—then he’s falling forward again, catching himself this time with his palms. Lane grabs him by the scruff of his neck as Cael’s legs pump beneath him to keep him moving—
    And, just like that, they’re only feet from the river’s edge.
    The bubbling