Swipe

language.
    “It’s nice to meet you, Wallace. You eat that, now. It’s good, and . . . and I just made it this morning.”
    But Wallace had already finished the sandwich. He burped, and a couple wet crumbs tumbled down his chin.
    Wallace couldn’t have been more than thirty-five, Logan guessed. Certain signs of youth were unmistakable. And yet Wallace was, in so many ways, an old man. His missing teeth were just the beginning. Those that remained were yellow and stray and broken. His eyes were yellow too, and his hair, while long and drawn back in a brown ponytail that reached past his shoulder blades, was unduly thin and fragile. The man’s skin was leathery and covered in liver spots. His clean-shaven face made matters only sadder, since it suggested that this was a man who cared about his appearance . . . who was doing everything he could for it.
    Others had gathered now, men and women of all walks of life, some very old, some younger, all close to death. Logan divided his leftover carrots and celery and apple slices among them.
    He guessed he’d been in here nearing on ten minutes now. Almost time to go. Logan made idle chatter with the group around him, asking about their afternoon, how it was going, and mentioning the sunny weather. The group smiled, laughing softly, perhaps not quite understanding his words either but nodding even so, touching his shoulders, hugging him, shaking his hands, thanking him . . .
    Logan wondered if these people had ever had a visitor, had ever been given a sandwich made that day, or an apple, or carrots and celery that still crunched. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to ask about any of that.
    He didn’t ask about Peck either.
    6
    “How was it?” Erin asked. “Was it awful? Are you all right? You look dirty. You smell terrible.”
    Logan didn’t answer right away. He came off the stoop and walked immediately down the block, toward the houses a few lots over. Erin rushed to follow him.
    “It was fine,” Logan said finally.
    “Hear anything about Peck?”
    “No. Not in there.”
    “Was it scary? Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”
    Logan shook his head but didn’t speak, and Erin didn’t ask him anything else about the firehouse.
    “We need to find some younger Markless. They must be around.” Logan wasn’t sure if he’d suggested it as a strategy, or simply because he needed to see someone with some life left in him. Either way, up ahead was a stretch of houses with younger people, late teens and early twenties, sitting and shouting to one another on stoops. Logan and Erin approached.
    “You’re lost, kiddies. This ain’t Old District,” one girl yelled. Erin seemed to shrink into herself, but Logan fired back.
    “Good thing,” he said. “I wouldn’t take those hoarders’ money if they begged me .”
    The girl on the stoop narrowed her eyes. Logan held his hands so his wrists were showing, though he didn’t make a big deal of it.
    “What’s the pretty doing with you?” the girl asked, nodding at Erin.
    “She’s thinking of losing the Mark,” Logan said. Erin glanced at him sideways, frightened. Last night, she was in her element.
    Today, Erin very much was not.
    “You can’t lose it, sweetheart,” a guy said from another stoop.
    “You can’t ever lose it.”
    “Can if you cut your arm off,” Logan said. Erin let out a stifled yelp, but no one besides Logan seemed to hear.
    The people on the stoops lifted their eyebrows, intrigued. Logan made his move.
    “We’re looking for a man named Peck,” Logan said. “I’m wondering if any o’ you fine folks had some ideas.”
    Immediately, laughter erupted from the stoops of houses all the way to several lots over.
    “Nice try, DOME. Move along, now, move along.” They weren’t intimidated. They weren’t shy about it. They just laughed and shook their heads as Logan and Erin passed, ashamed.
    “Cavalier and ineffective. Very impressive, Logan. You play it that cool in the firehouse too?”
    “It was worth a shot,” Logan said. “We still managed to learn something.”
    “Which is?”
    “They know the guy. They know he’s wanted. They’re on his side.”
    “Correct me if I’m wrong, Logan . . . that all seems like bad news for us.”
    “It is,” Logan agreed. “But at least now we know it.”
    7
    Back in Old District, Dane Harold spun in circles on his dad’s rollerstick while Hailey watched. “It’s really not so tough!” he said, though he swung wildly and fell off to