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How long had it been? About a week, plenty of which was spent unconscious. Did unconscious time count, when it came to breaking a habit? A second thought came on the heels of that one: Could he find his way back to the Station unaided?
They’d have some there, obviously. He’d seen it right there, in Bishop’s workshop. Bishop hadn’t moved the packet, even after pointing out it was there and noting that Rector hadn’t made a dive for it. Maybe it’d be there still tomorrow, or whenever he could reach it next. For one awful flare of a moment, even the specter of Yaozu’s unhappy face couldn’t temper the awful need.
No. He couldn’t have any sap. He had a job to do, and Yaozu had no use for addicts.
Knowing this, remembering this, and clinging to this still didn’t take the edge off how badly he wanted the drug. But it steeled his resolve enough to keep him from setting off for King Street Station right that instant on a lark.
Barely.
Instead, he resolved his way down to the kitchen, without the cane this time. He was disappointed to learn that the cherry supply had not been replenished, but he was able to scavenge enough odds and ends, bits and pieces, and stray scraps of perfectly serviceable food from inside the cabinets and barrels to fill his stomach.
It was pleasant, this sense of being full. Over the years, he’d lost track of what it felt like. The sensation was quite different from his old way of managing his hunger, which was to load himself up on drugs until he simply forgot that he hadn’t eaten enough in a long t
ime.
But even once he was content, he didn’t want to stop at “full. ” A lifetime of paranoia about his next meal made him want to grab everything and hoard it, but he stopped himself from filling his mostly empty satchel with whatever he could carry from the kitchen. He’d left most of the bag’s contents under the sickroom bed since no one seemed inclined to take them away from him, except the pickles and he didn’t need any of the foodstuffs right at that moment. He’d kept the lighting supplies and added the mask he’d been using, plus extra filters and other small sundries—including a little pot of foul-smelling cream he’d found on the table beside his bed next to a note that read simply, in blocky print, “Fer your hands. And stop scratchin at them. ”
Gloves still eluded him, but they were next on his list. He needed a pair if he planned to run around up top, and he had a mission—a real-live bona fide job, given to him by someone who nobody argued with.
The more he thought about it, the more he liked it.
He moved with the authority of the city’s “mayor. ” So long as he stayed in his good graces, no harm would come to him. He mused on this pleasant fact while he chewed, eating so thoughtfully that he almost didn’t hear the odd thumping noise that came from down the hall. When it did penetrate his thoughts, he concluded that it moved with the rhythm of footsteps—and when the stepper appeared, Rector froze like a small wild animal.
All his smug, hypothetical confidence evaporated on contact with the man who stood in the kitchen doorway, because he nearly filled it. He wasn’t as tall as Captain Cly—and who was, really?—but he looked like a man Cly’s length who had been squashed down to merely average height. He had a wide, flat face and arms as thick as railroad ties. In his hand, he held a cane sturdy enough to support a moose.
“Hello,” Rector peeped.
The man said hello back, with only a faint note of a question. Then he said, “You’re Rector, aren’t you?”
“I am. ”
“Been out cold for the last day or so, haven’t you?”
“I have. ”
“Huh,” he said, and approached the same cabinets that Rector had so freshly raided. “I heard about your hair. Hard to miss a boy like you. ”
“So I’m told. ”
“I’m Jeremiah, but half the folks down here just call me Swakhammer,” he informed Rector, not looking at him. He was too busy rummaging, hunting for something in particular. Still facedown in the storage, he added, “The nurse who’s been looking after you—that’s my daughter. ”
Rector said, “Ah. Yes. She seems to have done a bang-up job. ”
“She always does. So, what about you?” Swakhammer turned around with a paper-wrapped piece of something smelly in his hands. Peeling the old newsprint aside, he revealed a slab of smoked salmon that Rector wished to God he’d seen first, because it’d be camped out in his stomach by now if he had.
“What about me?”
“Are you roaming around in the Vaults all by your lonesome?”
“For the moment,” Rector confirmed. “I’ve only been up a little while. I don’t guess you know where Huey or Zeke might be, do you?”
“Both of them are up at the fort, I think. Huey flies with the Naamah Darling more often than not, and Zeke is trying to learn something from the captain—or trying to keep from learning anything, I can’t tell which. ” He bit off a hunk of fish, and held the rest by its wrapping. As he chewed, he leaned back against the counter and spoke around the mouthful. “You want me to take you up there? Or do you know the way?”
Somewhat relaxed by Swakhammer’s attitude, if not his appearance, Rector said, “That’d be fine, if you don’t mind showing me. I’ve only been there once, and I wasn’t half awake yet. ”
“All right, then. Hey, that’s a real nice satchel you got there. ”
Oh yes. Huey had said something about it being one of Swakhammer’s. “I understand it’s one of yours,” he said—might as well play it straight, for there was no arguing now. “I appreciate you letting me hang on to it. Or … Huey said you wouldn’t mind. ”
