Further south, aluminum-hulled dinghies bobbed at the public pier. Illegals used them to net croaker and sculpin, scavenger fish too polluted for the regular markets. Behind the rows of crumbling, sunbleached hotels, enclosed pedestrian corridors stretched from the West City mallplexes to the private filtered bathing areas. But here on the landing, the only sunscreens were tin slats that stank of bird shit. Strips of burning light fell across the rusting benches. The seats had all been taken hours ago by men who didn't have jobs on the Island but were hoping for an inside tip that might lead to one.

Some of the new-hires brought their families with them to see the Island boat and say goodbye. Javier's mother and sister had come with him on the electric tram from the East City barrio, but he'd already sent them back again.

Mama had pulled away from him, leaving a film of sweat where they touched. Her eyes flashed, a ring of white around black. He wondered why should she be afraid now. All those years, he could have run with the cartel or been gunned down by them, or zeroed out by drugs or lung crud. He could have blown his brains out like so many of his friends. But he hadn't. He was clean and mostly whole and now he'd landed a job - a real job.

Her plastic sandals scuffing the sand-gritted concrete, his sister, Ana, had followed Mama back into the glaring street, the baby sleeping exhausted on her shoulder. Blood spattered its lips where it had been coughing. Ana acted as if the baby were dead already, like the last one. Javier could feel the pain running like a sickness in her blood. Sometimes she hurt so much it made her crazy.

He would take care of her and the baby, too. There was no one else, not after her husband got caught in the crossfire of a cartel raid.