“Back where you were,” the neat man says, as if he’s returning luggage to the correct room. “Someone will see to your shirt and bring food later.”
He lifts his chin at the guard, and the door opens wider. I step inside.
Seven heads lift. The light is yellow and thin but the room’s the same—bunks bolted in rows, buckets in the corner, a length of pipe with no insulation carrying warmth along the ceiling. I hear my name in a whisper (Phoenix?) and then I hear what I must look like in the catch of breath that follows.
Blood on my shirt. Blood on my mouth. A lot of it mine. Most of it not.
I’m not the only one who sees the way the girls curl in to make themselves smaller. Even Luis takes a half step back. My stomach churns with the urge to apologize for bringing proof of someone else’s violence into their space. An apology won’t change anything.
And I’m not sorry that I fought. I’d fight again.
Iwillfight again.
“It’s okay,” I lie, as gently as I can. “It’s not all mine. I’m okay.”
Split Lip—the girl with the squared shoulders and the authority of someone who’s had to carry other people—moves first. “Shower,” she says, and nods toward the back where a short, tiled alcove holds two shower heads and a drain. “Quick. Before someone remembers we exist.”
I peel my shirt over my head, at this point uncaring of modesty. These women, this boy—they don’t care. They aren’t going to look at me like that.
The room sees the blooming bruise under my ribs and the angry scrape at my cheekbone. No one says that I don’t look okay. No one needs to. Messy Bun’s mouth trembles and then steadies.
A girl I recognize from the casino steps forward with a towel. She used to run drinks on the mezzanine, a small, pretty thing withblade-sharp cheekbones and glitter eyeliner that survived three shifts. Kira. She used to call me “hey, book girl” when I came by the staff bar for water, because I always had a book in my hand to read during my break.
“Here,” she says, soft. “Come on.”
The water is not hot, not really, but it’s more than a trickle. Kira reaches past me for the valve and adjusts it until the stream threads from the spray. I stand under it and watch the water turn pink and then red where it strikes the floor. I don’t want to see it, but I need to see it. Danner’s blood, mixed with mine, goes down the drain in ribbons. My hands shake when I scrub. Kira steadies the bar of soap with her palms.
“Who was it?” she asks, not looking up.
“Danner,” I say. My throat feels raw. “He’s dead now.”
Kira’s hands still. Water runs loud in the pause. “Good,” she says, and there’s nothing soft about it. “He deserved worse.”
Behind us, a small ripple moves through the bunks. Someone exhales a breath they’ve been holding for weeks. Someone else laughs once, a dry crack of sound. The woman who rocks and hums goes quiet. Luis steps closer, just a little.
Kira turns me carefully, eyes scanning for new damage the way ER nurses do. “Lift,” she says, and checks my ribs with her fingertips. “Can you breathe deep?”
“It hurts,” I answer, honest, and pull air all the way in to prove it.
She nods, practical. “Not broken, maybe bruised.” She scrubs my forearms, my hands, the crescent moons under my nails. “I wasn’t sure I was going to see you again.”
“Me either.” I close my eyes and scrub my face. The scrape on my cheek bites. I like the sting. It means my body still reports to me.
“Who killed him?” Luis asks from outside the stall. He’s trying to sound casual and can’t. “Was it…one of us?”
“No.” I let the water run over my scalp until the ship is the only noise in my head. “That…man. The neat one. He told me the rules.”
Split Lip snorts. “That’s The Broker. He loves his rules.”
“They love breaking them more,” Kira says, bitter. She passes me a thin, clean T-shirt. “Put this on.”
I do. The cotton clings damp to my skin. The air bites my wet hair. I wring it out and tie it up with a strip of torn sheet that someone presses into my palm. The girls see everything, inventory everything. Tools, water, cloth, information—they move them around like currency because that’s what they are.
“Did he hurt you?” the girl with the bandage around her wrist asks. She’s eighteen maybe, eyes too old.
“He tried.” My voice doesn’t shake. It feels like an achievement. “I fought.”
“She fought,” Kira repeats, louder. “And he’s dead.”
