They find Dana in the pantry behind one of the fifty-pound bags of flour. She’s brought out into the common room, dusted all in white. Her brother’s already there with his head hanging. Lady Barmaki considers them both as she sips her tea. Hallon gets ready to grab Milo and run.

The twins look at each other. “We have no excuse,” they say together.

Lady Barmaki puts down her tea cup, surprised. “Excuse me?”

“We went beyond curious,” Dana says, “and endangered ourselves as well as these fine people.”

“We’re very sorry,” they say, finishing together.

Lady Barmaki looks around the room to confirm the others are hearing what she’s hearing. “Where are the explanations? The excuses? Wait—what are you two hiding?”

“There are no excuses,” Rashid says.

“We made a mistake, is all,” Dana says.

Lady Barmaki narrows her eyes. “If you don’t tell me what’s going on, there will be no Barada for a month.”

The children don’t react.

“Two months.”

They wince, but still don’t say anything.

“Salima,” Rahima says, putting a hand on Lady Barmaki’s arm. “Enough. If there’s something they’re protecting, it must be important. They’ll tell you in time.”

“You don’t understand. The mischief these two can cause—I wouldn’t be surprised if they start a revolution one day. Unintended, of course. It’s always accidents with them, but the damage would still be done.”

The children look both abashed and pleased at the same time.

Hallon releases the breath she’d been holding. For whatever reason, she and Milo are safe for now. Although, how safe is an interesting question, given the way the children keep glancing in their direction.

###

They’d scared her. Truly scared her. Rashid can feel it through the way Mother clenches his hand. And from Dana’s grimace, the way Mother clenches her hand too. They’re forced to sit by her side and listen to the boring debate about how to best distribute supplies, while not thirty feet away, two bandits—real live bandits—wander freely. There’s something unjust about that.

Dana bites her lip, and Rashid scrunches his face in response. Until Mother calms down, the two are trapped by her side. If every servant and bodyguard wasn’t needed for the relief effort, they’d already have been escorted home. They’re lucky to still be here.

The bandits help with the supplies. The boy, Milo, has a silly smile on his face. He’s not threatening at all. In fact, it’s downright hard to imagine him as a desperate fugitive. The girl though—Hallon—she’d been strong. Cool, too. Her eyes had been so calm as she hung above him, talked to him like they were out for a stroll. His wrist is still sore from where she held him. A bandit. Definitely a bandit.

Dana smiles. He hates it when she gloats, but right is right, and he’ll give her credit for it. Now if only they can get away! How are they supposed to talk to the bandits if they’re stuck to Mother’s side?

A soldier walks through the front door. The tabs on his collar mark him as a private in the Civil Order Corps. No doubt he’s a messenger here to talk to Mother. Rashid smiles when the private stiffens at the sight of Lady Barmaki, but instead of approaching, he steps to the side to let a Gloop walk ahead. He’s the same age as the twins, with dark hair—no, fur—on his head, rich as sable. The tattoo on his forehead is as blue as his eyes. He approaches with a swagger.

Mother turns to the innkeeper. “Who’s this?”

“Karam. He’s a runner for the Scholar.”

Dana leans forward, as does Rashid. She flicks her eyes towards him. The Scholar! They’d heard so many stories. Father’s guests complain about him endlessly. And this boy works for him!

The older man—what was his name? Eitwali. He steps forward, like out of the background of a painting. “Is Noor well?”

“Yes, yes,” Karam says. “We dropped her off at the Scholar’s House without any problems.”

The news doesn’t ease the older man’s worry.

Karam gestures to the soldier, who—clearly unhappy in his role—pulls a map from his pack and hands it to him. “The Scholar sent me as soon as he heard there were supplies to be distributed. This map lists where they’re needed most.”

The map is large enough to cover a table. In a neat hand is an inventory of all the No Town neighborhoods, along with the amounts of food and water required per day to support the Gloop living there. Diagrams and a schedule show the best routes for distribution.

Dr. Rugaam says, “He’s as thorough as ever.”

Mother nods. “This looks like a sound plan, although I’d love to know how he knew which of my people were here with me. Even my children are listed.”

And it’s true. Their names are written on the schedule, assigned to help at the inn. Meanwhile, various of their servants, the inn’s residents, and unrecognized names are given delivery routes. Dana sighs, and Rashid agrees. It’s like there’s a conspiracy to keep them trapped when there are so many interesting people and places to explore.

Eitwali rubs at his mustache. “We’ll need to organize additional transportation and get passes for the people.”

“Already done,” Karam says with a grin. “Just look outside.”

Everyone files out the front door. Five carts, each pulled by a pair of Reds, are lined up. Along with the Barmaki car and their two trucks, there should be enough vehicles to make the plan work.

“The Scholar thinks of everything,” Karam says.

“The timetable is tight,” Dr. Rugaam says. “We’ll need to get started right away.”

Everyone springs into action, except for Rashid and Dana. Sensing their desire to join in, Mother’s grip tightens. All they can do is watch with hungry eyes as events unfold.

###

Milo feels loose, his muscles unwound. Equations flow in and out of his vision, breaching the surface of reality. When he was in school, they’d called him Bad Luck Rabbit. But not today. Today, he’d helped save someone’s life. He’s a hero, and he’s not sure what to do with the feeling.

He would’ve liked time to talk about it with Hallon, but all the equations got jumbled after meeting the Barmaki children. The inn went from relative quiet to sudden busyness.

Hallon said it was all right; that they wouldn’t need to run like fugitives and maybe they could turn their meeting with Lady Barmaki into good fortune. The immediate effect, though, is that they’re now temporarily apart, but only for as long as it takes his group to deliver their share of the supplies. He and Hallon will be back together soon, and then they’ll have lots of time to talk.

Eratosthenes walks beside Milo on his left. On his right are George and Georges, two Reds pulling a cart loaded with bread, vegetables, milk, and water. Georges is a head taller than George. When he was born, he was as big as two Georges and the name stuck.

The streets are otherwise empty. The crowds that would normally be present are missing. There is only Milo’s lonely group, and the wind twirling up and down the street, the numbers so bright, they leave an imprint on Milo’s eyes. He’d like to ask Eratosthenes about the wind, but the dragon is deep in thought.

“Is everything all right?” Milo asks.

George responds. “Sure. The cart’s heavy, but not so bad.”

The lines of thought, luck, and karma have me worried. I fear that events are being influenced against us. Eratosthenes peers back in the direction of the Standing Goat and then into the distance, towards the neighborhood around Groud’s Factory, their cart’s destination.

“The quicker we can deliver these supplies,” Milo says, “the quicker we can return.”

George says, “That’s right.”

Georges agrees and the two men pick up the pace. The cart creaks and sways behind them.

Eratosthenes begins to flicker in and out of existence. Milo catches a glimpse of a woman with a staff, her hair in disarray, but when he looks, there’s nothing there. The same thing happens with a hunchback across the street and a girl with short, stubby antlers riding on the cart. This continues for two blocks, and Milo wonders if Hallon is wrong after all—that he is seeing things—but then Eratosthenes reappears, his jacket askew.

We’ve eased the path ahead. Things should be better now, but I’m still uneasy.

Milo has only recently started building a new model for the dragon and doesn’t know how to respond. Perhaps Eratosthenes is anxious because of the lockdown? According to the Scholar’s map, there are two checkpoints along the way to Groud’s Factory.

They encounter the first at the corner of The Apples and Little Boxcar. A half-track blocks the intersection, and its machine gun follows their approach. The Reds hardly breathe while a corporal with a handlebar mustache looks over their permit to travel while the lockdown is in place.

Corporal Handlebar waves them through, but not before snagging a loaf of bread and wheel of cheese from the back. There is nothing Milo or the Georges can do about it, so they keep going.

People peek out from their windows and open doorways as the cart passes, but no one dares to step outside. There are snipers stationed on some of the rooftops, and Milo can see the barrels of the rifles. It’s an uncomfortable feeling and their angles and trajectories make his scalp itch.

Finally, with a sense of relief, the factory comes into view. There is just one more checkpoint to pass through before they arrive at the gate and can start their work.

A line of soldiers is ahead, aiming their rifles at a man on his knees. It’s Old Man Hussam but without his pushcart loaded with atayef. The machine gun on the half-track swings to point at Milo’s group. The corporal in charge strides towards Milo. He is a plain-looking man, and his voice is as average as his looks.

“Who are you? What are you doing with these Reds?”

Milo hands over the permit. “It’s humanitarian assistance. We’re here to deliver supplies.”

The corporal sniffs at the permit and assigns one of his men to look over the cart.

Milo asks, “What’s going on?”

“We caught this Gloop outside,” the corporal says.

“But I did nothing wrong,” Old Man Hussam says. “My family needs water. There is a leak in our tank.”

“Shut up,” the corporal says. “I’ll deal with you soon.”

Old Man Hussam pleads with Milo. “You, you are a dear customer. Tell him. I am harmless.”

The corporal eyes Milo. “You know this Gloop?”

“Yes, he sells atayef, the best in No Town.”

“That’s right. That’s right.” Old Man Hussam smiles, hopeful. “We are friends.”

The corporal isn’t convinced. “So you can vouch for him? You know for certain that he isn’t Silent?”

“The probability is tiny,” Milo says, “but I can’t say for certain because the range of our interactions has been limited to the buying and selling of atayef.”

“So you don’t know him,” the corporal says, the equations around his eyes narrowing.

“I do, only somewhat. If it helps, I can tell you that being Silent doesn’t fit his model.”

“Please, young sir,” Old Man Hussam says. “You do know me. I would never do anything wrong. And never the things the soldiers claim. My family is thirsty. That’s all.”

“We’ve already wasted enough time,” the corporal says. “I know a way to tell if he’s a rat. Strip off his shirt.”

Old Man Hussam is confused. “What?”

A soldier slings his rifle and roughly pulls off Hussam’s shirt. The old man’s body is lanky. Two dull gray metal cards hang from a necklace; behind them the hairs on his chest are all white. There’s an ugly bruise on his right shoulder.

“Hah,” the corporal says. “I knew it! You’ve been firing a rifle!”

“No, no. I would never do such a thing.”

“Then explain that bruise!”

“I am old and old men bruise. I fell as I was trying to repair the tank. Please, please, you must believe me.”

“I believe,” the corporal says. “I believe you’re a rat.”

“Young sir, you have to tell him. I’m—”

The corporal pulls a pistol from its holster. The revolver is beetle black and too large for his hand. Time slows down. The numbers shift as the muscles in his hand tighten, as the hammer cocks with a mechanical click, the gear moving with precision. A bang. A flash. And blood and brain matter splatter against the cobblestones. Old Man Hussam’s body jerks before falling. The body—the equations of his life gone out of it—lies on the ground, rocking slightly from the fall.

Too late, much too late, an image flashes in Milo’s memory of his first time meeting Old Man Hussam. “His eye,” he says, his voice croaking. “His right eye’s cloudy. He can’t see from it. There’s no way he fired a rifle from that shoulder.”

“Is that right?” The corporal looks blankly at Milo. “Oh. Oh well. Doesn’t matter, I suppose. He was just a Gloop.” The soldiers turn their rifles on George and Georges. “Be on your way,” he says.

How had things gone wrong so quickly? Milo had saved a life earlier. And now he’s lost one. The math is simple, but he can’t seem to understand it.

Milo, listen to me. Eratosthenes kneels in the pooling blood. I have Hussam and will keep him safe, but this isn't the result we expected. He turns to the side, as if to speak to someone out of view. The lines are tangling. I can't predict what will happen next. We'll have to adapt.

A second Eratosthenes suddenly appears to stand beside Milo. He puts a hand on Milo’s shoulder, and the feeling is hot. There’s the smell of iron, mixing with the scent of spent gunpowder. The second Eratosthenes disappears as quickly as he appeared.

Milo, there are shadows starting to pour into the area. You'd better get to somewhere safe, just in case.

“What?” Milo’s calculations can’t keep up with events.

“I said be on your way.” The corporal gestures with the revolver still in his hand.

George says, “Sir? Sir? We’d best go.”

“Yes. Yes,” Milo says, dazed. “Of course.” He walks past Old Man Hussam’s body, past the soldiers and their checkpoint, his eyes locked on the factory gate. The Georges go back for the cart, while Milo hurries ahead. The factory is safe. He understands the factory.

A familiar face appears at the gate. “Oh, it’s you, boss. I heard a gunshot.”

“Abdullah. Old Man Hussam’s just been murdered. The soldiers—they killed him.” Milo shakes his head and realizes that Abdullah’s model is strange. “Wait, why are you here?”

“Mr. Groud pulled some strings, and the Scholar helped with the arrangements. Didn’t you get the message? The team is able to work during the lockdown. Come with me, I’ll bring you in. It’s not safe outside.”

“I didn’t get any messages, and I can’t stay,” Milo says. “I have to—”

“But the team is waiting for you, boss. At least talk to them, won’t you? They’ve been worried about you.”

Milo hesitates. The Georges are being careful in retrieving the cart, not wanting to startle the soldiers. Eratosthenes has disappeared from view. Has the light dimmed somehow?

“Boss?”

“I suppose a few minutes won’t—”

A flash of light bursts the factory windows, glass sparkling in the afternoon sun. A shard catches Abdullah through the neck. A second explosion ripples through the building. A third shakes the world and knocks Milo down. He disappears amid the smoke and dark.