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talk about the possibility that the hobo and Rigo will be gone, vanished into thin air. Or maybe Rigo will be dead, and the bag of food and ammo will be what goes missing. They imagine any number of doom scenarios together: the man with a knife to Rigo’s throat, or a gun, or a whole gang of hobos looking for a taste of food, or violence, or the pleasures given by young boys.
    But they get to the trestle and see the vagabond standing at the far end with Rigo sitting next to him. Rigo offers them a lazy, tired wave.
    They cross. One after the other. The river oozing far below.
    As they approach, the vagrant just stares at them, offering only a curt nod as they get close.
    “Mister,” Lane finally says.
    “Boys,” the vagrant says, his voice surprisingly soft for such a gruff-looking fella. Even that one word rises and falls with a curious lilt. “Here’s your friend.”
    Rigo takes Cael’s hand in a sloppy, greasy grip, and Cael pulls him to his feet.
    “Thanks for saving him,” Cael says, hesitant.
    “I was fishing for junk. Saw him bobbing along.”
    “Fishing for junk?” Lane asks.
    “Mm-hmm. Sometimes the folks at the processing factories throw away trash. Floats downriver. I take it.”
    “You’re a hobo,” Cael says, a statement as obvious as the man’s crooked nose.
    “I am. And who are you, little mice?”
    “I’m Rigo. Those are my friends, Lane and—”
    Cael shushes him with a hiss, but it’s too late.
    “—Cael.”
    “Pleasure.” There again: that smile. Cael thinks it’s the smile of a fox sliding up on a pair of sleeping hens. But his friends don’t seem too worried. And, he reminds himself, he thought the same thing about all the vagrants under Pop’s command. Maybe you’re laying down judgment where you ought not to be judging, he thinks. Because isn’t he a vagrant, too? The hobo continues: “You little mice seem a bit lost. Saw that raft of yours get hit.” He grunts as Cael’s reminded that their ride is now gone—and with it the magna-cruxes. “Raft on the rails. Pretty smart.”
    “We’re scavengers,” Cael says. Not a lie, not really.
    “What town?”
    Cael thinks to say Boxelder, but—that’s too far away for it to make sense. He’s trying to think of what’s near, but he can’t conjure any names, and his mouth is working like the lips of a parched and thirsty man—
    “Wheatley,” Lane blurts.
    “Wheatley, huh.” The man looks them up and down. “Nice town. People there are good folk. Put an old dirt-paw like me to work without condemnation. That tree of yours in the center of town sure took a licking.”
    “It did,” Cael says, lying through his teeth. What tree?
    “Lightning’s a helluva thing,” the hobo says. “My name’s Eben, by the way. You heading back toward Wheatley?”
    “We, ah, we are,” Cael says.
    “Night’ll be here long before you get back, what with your raft blasted to toothpicks. I got a little place carved out for me and my boy not far down the tracks if you want it. Besides, you’ll be crossing back over the Rovers’ territory on foot.”
    “The . . . Rovers?” Rigo asks.
    The hobo gives them a look. “I know you got a problem with Rovers in Wheatley. Those dogs are mean and hungry. Travel in big packs, too.”
    “The Rovers ,” Lane says. “We, eh, call them something different.”
    “Oh yeah?”
    Cael steps over the answer and blurts out, “We’d love to come with you, and thanks for the offer.” He tightens the hinges of his jaw at saying this, but it makes good sense. Especially ifthese . . . Rovers are truly dangerous. “Plus, I figure we owe you some for saving our man here.”
    “Let’s scurry, little mice,” Eben says. He doesn’t stop to wait for them, just turns tail and starts walking down the track, shoulders slumped forward, loop-pole in his hand.

HATING LIFE ON THE HALCYON BALCONY
    IT STEALS THE BREATH from her chest. Vertigo robs her of balance. Her palms feel instantly sweaty. Her