Rye cleared his throat. “I think it’s time we parted ways.”
Finn looked at me again, his expression torn, but nodded once. “Goodnight, Ava.”
“Night,” I mumbled, unable to say anything else thanks to his penetrating gaze.
Dean gently took me by the elbow, leading me away from the bar and leaving the others behind. My cousin was clinging to her husband, laughing and waving goodbye, and he was chuckling. Behind them, Finn was as silent as ever.
Dean cleared his throat. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled and turned my focus to the task at hand, which was walking without falling on my ass.
The District was quiet and mostly dark at this hour, only a few lanterns and candles visible through windows, their soft glow looking ethereal to my alcohol-blurred vision. I clung to Dean, not sure if I would be able to find my way out even if I hadn’t had too much to drink. Not only did everything look different because of the sandstorm, but I’d also never been in the District this late before. The other times I’d come with Ione, I’d left early—often alone so she could stay with Rye—and had made it home before eleven. At that hour, much of the city had still been lit and alive, but now it felt positively empty.
“It’s so quiet,” I said, a little louder than necessary.
Dean chuckled. “It’s almost three o’clock in the morning.”
“It is!” This time my voice bounced off the surrounding buildings and came back to me.
Dean slipped his arm around my waist and leaned closer, his lips brushing my neck and making heat rush through me when he whispered, “People are sleeping.”
“Oh.” It was all I could get out.
“The good news is that between the hour and the storm, the protestors should be gone.”
Until that moment, I’d been so distracted by the rum and the two men at the bar that I’d completely forgotten about my altercation with the man outside the gate. Now, as if reacting to the memory, the scratches on my arm throbbed.
“I should have clawed his eyes out,” I mumbled.
Dean laughed a second time.
Two guards I’d never met before were at the gate, but they obviously knew Dean, because they didn’t ask why we were in the District so late or what we’d been doing. Instead, they looked at me with a combination of curiosity and amusement.
“Fun night?” one of them asked.
“Shut the fuck up and open the gate,” Dean said, but his tone was light.
The guard who moved to the gate chuckled, but the other just grinned at me as he nodded to my hand. Like I did every time I entered and left the District, I held it up so he could scan my chip.
We passed the other guard on our way out, who was still laughing when he said, “Have a good one, Johnson.”
Dean only waved.
Like we’d thought, the protestors were gone. A handful of motobikes and autos still zoomed up and down the street—able to move at a speed they never would have been able to accomplish during the day—but the sidewalks were mostly empty. Like inside the District, the evidence of the recent storm was everywhere. We kicked up dirt as we walked, making me feel like I was breathing it in, and everything seemed to be covered in a thin layer of it.
Despite the sand, I spotted vagrants curled up in corners or on benches, paper or plastic sheets covering their bodies to protect them from the cool desert air. It was normal—it wasn’t like they had anywhere else to go—and if I’d been able to see the sidewalks during the day, I’d no doubt see the same thing. In direct contrast to the declining human population, the homeless population was thriving. Something most humans blamed on the visitors.
“So, where are we headed?” Dean said once we’d reached the end of the street.
“Home,” I mumbled.
“Mine or yours?” There was a lightness to the question, but even in my slightly inebriated state I knew he wasn’t totally joking.
“Mine,” I said.
“Okay…” He waited, and when I said nothing else, added, “I have to know where that is.”
Right.
I shook my head, trying to clear the alcohol from my brain. It didn’t work.
“This way.”
I pulled him in the right direction, moving through the city easily despite my uneven steps. He never let me go, never eased his grip on me, and was there every time I stumbled—which was a lot. Soon we’d reached my street, and my shitty little house came into view, smashed between two equally shitty homes.
I’d long ago learned not to be ashamed of where I lived, even though it announced to everyone who came here that our entire lives were funded by the government. It would have been embarrassing if more than fifty percent of the population wasn’t in the same boat, but since they were, there was no reason to try to pretend things were different.
My house, unlike the others, still had the front light on. At least the sandstorm hadn’t been bad enough to knock out the power.
“I live not too far from here now,” Dean said as we slowed outside my door.
“You didn’t grow up here?”
“No.” He paused and exhaled. “I lived on the other side of the city with my dad. He raised me.”
“Does he still live there?”
“He died last year, so I qualified for my own place.” Dean gave me a sad smile.
If I’d been more with it, I would have been able to figure that out without asking. With so many buildings in decay, housing was limited, and adult children needing assistance weren’t usually approved until they got married, which was one of the many reasons I still lived at home. Even with an official marriage license, new couples often had to wait months or even years for a place to open up.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, feeling slightly stupid and a little bad that I’d made him talk about it.
“It’s okay,” Dean said, and thankfully he sounded like he actually meant it.
We
