Page 7 -

MARIA INGRANDE MORA

up or not, running the rails beat dealing with streets crowded
with hunger and hurt.
The tracks shuddered.
Nate’s body went cold. A train growled at his back.
Fear jolted through him as he sprinted to the next support
beam and swung down onto its rusty rungs. A pale girl scram-
bled down alongside him, narrowly avoiding getting flattened.
They exchanged tight nods as the train blasted by, raining hot
gravel down on them.
Shielding his eyes with one shaking hand, he dared a look
at the blur of the commuter train, hungry for a glimpse of the
beautiful gearwork. It was too fast to make anything out. And
maybe that was how the Withers looked to the commuters—
just a smear of faded color and decay.
Nate coughed against his arm. His chest ached sharply,
and a thread of worry wound through him, bigger than the
bitterness that struck him every time a train passed, carrying
people who weren’t tired or scared.
It hasn’t even been a week.
He didn’t have time to go to Alden’s for help. If he recon-
ciled himself to the mercy of Alden’s pace, he’d never get to the
port before dark. And before he sold the tech-guts weighing his
pockets, he had to sell the precious fishing line he’d bartered
an afternoon of tinkering for. If he struck a good bargain, he
could get enough credits to buy fresh greens. A month of dried
meat and watery broth wasn’t doing the gang any good.
Another cough rattled his chest, and he grimaced.
“Lunger?” The girl covered her mouth with the back of
her grubby hand and ducked away like she smelled something

8