Lately, sweeping up shards of conversation from the other runners has proven effortless.

" . . . going to leave the elderly. Probably take only the HHP generation."

"I hear they're sending us to Detroit."

"Who's Detroit?"

"It's an old city."

"I doubt it's Detroit. I heard we're moving to be near water. We aren't too far from an ocean, right? Flatts, right? You heard that, too? I heard there was another URE facility in Europe and another hundred-thousand people living there."

"Holy Heap."

"Think we're joining?"

I find the conversations entertaining. As long as they're leaning toward accepting some kind of movement, they won't put up too much resistance. Even if the move is a little farther away than they thought.

"Nah, this place is ours. We're not leaving. They're coming to Level Five to rip my fingers from the grates if they think they're making me go to some new shithole. My pop and me built this place."

Okay, maybe not everyone is aboard.

One hundred days until departure. My muscles stiffen at the thought.

My pace staggers behind them as I branch off to retire for an early night. As I'm about to slink away to my pod or the night, a short ring chirps from my PAHLM. A chorus of notifications resonate from all the PAHLMs on the track.

***SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT***

BROADCAST FROM THE OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT

2000 HOURS

ATTENDANCE MANDATORY

TUNE IN AT ANY TV

This is it.

Immediately, I receive another trill.

[Incoming Message: SLORN]

SINK ASAP

Stunned, I launch from the room. This is the first time Simon has actively sought me out in months. I'm overcome with worry. What if he's hurt? What if he's in trouble?

I skid to a halt in front of old doors of the Kitchen Sink. Ragged, unshaven, shrunken into an unrecognizable form, Simon stares at the floor. Dark circles sag under his eyes, accenting the browning stubble covering his cheeks. A half-healed scar on his right eyebrow startles me.

"Simon, what happened?"

Worry flickers through his eyes. The corner of his lip tugs upward.

"Nika, Honey—" He pulls me to him. "I'm fine, Kiddo. Don't look so upset." His hollow chuckles echo through the room.

He says this, but behind the fresh scar lurks an awful story. He seems sunken in his body but otherwise unharmed. Once the immediate anxiety passes, my body summons the dormant anger hibernating in my gut.

"It's hard to think calm thoughts—Dad—when you disappear for months then show up here, looking like this." I pull my arms out of his hands. "You wouldn't answer my PIMs. You never came back to the chapel after that night. What the hell am I supposed to think?" I'm not screaming. I'm abusing my bottom lip, forcing myself to stay composed, but what I want to do is let my anger fly at him with all the biting insults I have in my repertoire. I'd let that anger fly until he makes me understand why he left me alone.

His grin broadens until he's back to his natural smugness. "I have a surprise for you."

"A what?"

"A surprise."

I smell a new soap wafting off his skin. It's soft and floral, but it's strong against the perpetual dust. He must have reeked of something more foul before calling me here.

"Simon?" a voice beckons from behind me. I twist around to see the man from before. The one at the chapel. He's twitchy, but more confident when he eyes my father. "Let's get this done."

"Perfect timing, Tahn."

Tahn. I remember the name—it's a sordid slur as slimy as its owner. His shoulders hunch over his open PAHLM. His fingers dance over the icons as numbers fly above his sallow, lifeless skin. When he strolls next to us, he stands close enough to my father that their elbows touch.

Their familiarity is suspicious. "What's going on here?"

"We're re-building the Sink!"

I dig my jagged, short nails into my palm.

"I submitted the down payment today. Tahn's throwing in some construction estimates as a favor. Once we get all that, we can fashion together a new Sink. It's going to be a classier joint than it used to be. And . . ." he flares his hands out in jazzy showmanship, directing my attention to the churlish man on his left. "Meet our new business partner."

My heart shatters. Two hours. He had to wait two more hours to discover it would be for nothing. "Dad," I squeak out. "The rumors . . . "

"Oh, those bullshit stories going 'round lately? Don't tell me you believe that trash. Lady Almighty, Janika, how do you find time to listen to gossip even if the bar is gone?" He fills the new silence with forced laughter. "Maybe we can think about a new job for you. How would you like to cook with me? Or maybe Tahn can teach you finances or something."

I shake my head to clear the fury before I accidentally blurt out too much. There's little I can do to quell the rage. I have to leave—have to evacuate now.

A hand juts out, grabbing my wrist. "Don't you disrespect your father like that."

Tahn. His sweaty, bony fingers restrain me. He pulls me toward his foul breath, baring his teeth and jerking my arm backward.

No one gets to touch me without my permission anymore. Not after the shit that went down with the HHP.

I pivot into his body, startling him, invading the space he didn't expect me to voluntarily inhabit. Inches away from the pasty skin of his prickly face, his mask dissolves.

I had assumed I'd find a wilted half-man, but I discover a starving rat instead. A mean rat hiding in grime-laden holes doused in shadows, waiting to strike out. His yellow, oily hair sticks like cold noodles against his rounded jaw. I bet Simon's stench was similar to Tahn's before my father scrubbed it off himself.

"Get your hand off of me," I growl through clenched teeth.

"Oh, Tahn, please, no. It's fine." Simon approaches him as a leaf accidentally blown against a tree. My boiling anger curdles.

Tahn struggles to twist my arm backward. He doesn't expect me to swing around, thrusting that same arm under his shoulder and lifting him by the armpit. My other hand shoots out to grab him by the trachea. I compress it with the minimal effort of two fingers.

"Janika, don't!" Simon's strong grip clamps on my shoulder—his forceful voice rings in my ear. He has the capability to be stern with me, his daughter, but not this sad sack of trash?

The sour-faced Tahn gasps for breath in my hand. The wind knocks against my fingers that clog his windpipe. His complexion burgeons from pale ivory to ice-blue. "Who is this, Simon?"

"He's my partner."

My heart breaks. My grasp does not. "Not in the business sense, I'm assuming?"

"You're hurting him!"

I squint through lowered lids at the blue hue adorning Tahn's face.

"We need money. We can't live without the Sink."

"So, why is this piece of shit necessary?" His little gasps rap against my fingers in rapid beats.

"Janika, for fuck's sake, let him go!" Simon grabs my forearm, pulling it down. I release Tahn's throat. He collapses to the floor, sputtering violently with both hands wrapped around his neck. Simon drops to assist the simpering pile of sweat to sit up.

Simon has never touched me with aggression before. He rarely inhabits an aggressive place to begin with, so when the ghost of his grip on my arm pulsates in light throbs, I let my bitterness explode. "We don't need the Sink. Whatever this is, it's not going to help."

Simon ignores me. He strokes Tahn's cheek until it's back to being bread-colored.

"You'll probably want to watch this announcement," I say from above.

My warning goes unheard.

They were right. All of them. The gutter talk I had heard about Simon for all these years, the gossip I wanted to ignore—it was true. It is true.

Am I expected to accept my father found love with that pile of filth and suddenly we have enough money to restart the Kitchen Sink with a grand new business partner? This is the saddest fairy tale of them all.

No. Somehow, I'm pretty sure money together with slimy promises were somewhere between the sheets with them. Squeezing the sewer rat's dirty throat satisfies me. For now.