Maybe he was more tired than he thought, because he didn’t remember what happened between hitting “Execute” and Brennan shaking him awake. Noam lurched upright.
“You all right?” Brennan asked.
“What? Oh—fine, sorry. I must have...dozed off.” Noam seized the holoreader, tapping at the screen until it lit up again. The script was finished, anyway, and no run-time errors. Thankfully. “It’s all done.”
The thin line between Brennan’s brows deepened. “Are you feeling okay? You look...”
“Fine. I’m fine. Just tired.” Noam attempted a wan smile. He really hoped he wasn’t coming down with whatever it was Elliott from the computer store had. Only, he and Elliott had kissed in the back room on their lunch break yesterday, so yeah, he probably hadexactlywhat Elliott had.
“Maybe you should go on home,” Brennan said, using that grip on Noam’s shoulder to ease him back from the computer. “I can help Linda finish up dinner.”
“I can—”
“It wasn’t a request.”
Noam made a face, and Brennan sighed.
“For me, Noam. Please. I’ll drop by later on if I have time.”
There was no arguing with Brennan when he got all protective. So Noam just exhaled and said, “Yeah, all right. Fine.”
Brennan’s hand lingered a beat longer than usual on Noam’s shoulder, squeezing slightly, then let go. When Noam looked over, Brennan’s expression gave nothing away as he said, “Tell your dad hi for me.”
Noam had arrived at the Migrant Center in the early evening. Now it was night, the deep-blue world illuminated by pale streetlight pooling on the sidewalk. It was unusually silent. When Noam turned onto Broad, he found out why: a checkpoint was stationed up at the intersection by the railroad tracks—floodlights and vans, police, even a few government witchings in military uniform.
Right. No one without a Carolinian passport would be on the street tonight, not with Immigration on the prowl.
Noam’s papers were tucked into his back pocket, but he didn’t need to deal with Chancellor Sacha’s anti-Atlantian bullshit right now. Not with this headache. He cut through the alley between the liquor store and the barbecue joint to skirt the police perimeter. It might be a longer walk home from there, but Noam didn’t mind.
He liked the way tonight smelled, like smoked ribs and gasoline. Like oncoming snow.
When he got to his building, he managed to get the door open, even though the front latch was ancient enough it probably counted as precatastrophe. Fucking thing always got stuck,always, and Noam had written to the super fifty times, for what little difference that’d made. It was November, but the back of Noam’s neck was sweat-damp by the time he finally shouldered his way into the building and trudged into his apartment.
Once, this building was a bookstore. It’d long since been converted to tenements, all plywood walls and hung-up sheets for doors. The books were still there, though, yellowing and mildewed. They made him sneeze, but he read a new one every day all the same, curled up in a corner and out of the way of the other tenants. It was old and worn out, but it was home.
Noam touched the mezuzah on the doorframe as he went in, a habit he hadn’t picked up till after his mother died but felt right somehow. Not that being extra Jewish would bring her back to life.
Noam’s father had been moved from the TV to the window.
“What’s up, Dad?”
No answer. That was nothing new. Noam was pretty sure his father hadn’t said three words in a row since 2120. Still, Noam draped his arms over his father’s lax shoulders and kissed his cheek.
“I hope you want pasta for dinner,” Noam said, “’cause that’s what we’ve got.”
He left his father staring out at the empty street and busied himself with the saucepans. He set up the induction plate and hunched over it, steam wafting toward his face as the water simmered. God, it was unbearably hot, but he didn’t trust himself to let go of the counter edge, not with this dizziness rippling through his mind.
Should’ve had more than an apple for lunch. Should’ve gone to bed early last night, not stayed up readingParadise Lostfor the fiftieth time.
If his mother were here, she’d have dragged him off to bed and stuck him with a mug of aguapanela. It was some sugary tea remedy she’d learned from her Colombian mother-in-law that was supposed to cure everything. Noam had never learned how to make it.
Another regret to add to the list.
He dumped dried noodles into the pot. “There’s a checkpoint at the corner of Broad and Main,” he said, not expecting an answer.
None came. Jaime Álvaro didn’t care about anything anymore, not even Atlantia.
Noam turned down the heat on the stove. “Couldn’t tell if they made any arrests. Nobody’s out, so they might start knocking on doors later.”
