I feel a hand on my shoulder. Someone grabbing my hand to shake it. Shy faces, smiles, whispered welcomes, a cadre slipping close to take a first-hand look. They say a word, two words, then more, spilling of eagerness.

Thanks, thank you, thanks for inviting me, nice to meet you too, yes, it smells good. Hello.

I’m Em. I’m Jane. Leon. Caran. Fretta. Jacob. Erina. Lou. A dozen more names I can’t remember.

I’m led to a chair and another pair of hands push on my shoulders until I’m seated. This is the best seat, especially for someone your size. The small crowd slips away as quickly as it came upon me, and they go back to their preparations, conversations, and music.

Xavier and I sit beside each other in chairs, both of us silent.

“You have children,” I finally say.

“Two.”

“I didn’t expect this.”

“You thought I lived in that basement? And only ate stale nuts? Non-pacts have lives too.” He motions to our surroundings. “Such as it is.”

“Is Livvy here somewhere?”

“She lives in a different neighborhood a few blocks south of here.”

“And Carver?”

“Same as Livvy.”

I watch him survey the courtyard, like he’s trying to see what I see. Such as it is. We mumble an occasional word to each other, usually me asking a question about one person or another, but mostly I take it all in. The squalor is impossible to ignore, but there’s still something compelling about it all. Some sort of energy that’s impossible to extinguish. It swirls in the aroma of a meal about to be served, the frenzy of last-minute preparations, the clanking of pots and platters, the calling of this child or that to fetch something, and then unexpectedly, grace. They say grace. One by one a hand is outstretched to the next, one by one, until a circle of hands that include mine is connected. I bow my head. My chest aches. It’s been so long.

Food is spread out on a long table and everyone helps themselves. It’s simple but good. Roasted vegetables, hot bread, fresh greens with sliced red onions, grilled meat, smoked fish, pickled eggs, an amalgam of foods brought from different households to share. It reminds me of the potlucks my relatives used to have, only this one is bigger. No one takes more than their share. Maybe less. I’m careful with my portions.

We eat from plates in our laps and older men tell stories with full mouths and children finish their meals first and return to their play. Each of my forkfuls is watched as it enters my mouth and when I nod in approval at the taste I see a smile on the person who provided it. I acknowledge every morsel. My mother would be proud.

When meals are done and dishes cleared, the music resumes. It’s not just the three old ladies dancing now. Couples, women with women, men with men, children, everyone dancing together. The woman who took the baby from Xavier at the beginning of the evening comes and grabs his hand now and drags him into the circle of dancers. I see a ring on her finger. His wife. He doesn’t protest. He’s a different Xavier, soft putty in her small hands.

It’s not long before a thin old woman grabs my hand. I can’t dance. Especially not this dance, but I go along. I don’t think I really have a choice. I do my best and my missteps provide laughter for everyone—plus a couple of bruised toes. A few of the girls are closer to my age, maybe fourteen, and seem embarrassed when we occasionally end up as partners. I really make an effort not to step on their toes. Occasionally everyone steps back and claps as a few of the more accomplished dancers step forward and entertain everyone with steps that amaze me. I’m surprised to find myself laughing and hooting along with everyone else.

It’s way better than sitting alone in my quiet apartment studying files, and right now nothing is required of me except to enjoy myself. It’s a feeling I haven’t had since some of my nights looking up at the stars with Jenna. That already seems so long ago. My thoughts jump to Raine, who seems to transform under a night sky and stars. I wonder if she’s on her roof now?

A new dancer enters the center of the circle, but both Xavier and I turn our attention somewhere else at the same time. Bright lights illuminate the walls of the alley where I entered. Xavier steps forward and holds both of his hands up and the music stops and everyone’s quiet. It’s a signal they recognize. We hear a vehicle coming down the alley just seconds before it appears—a long white van. Xavier looks at me with some desperation, glances to the surrounding buildings and back to me again. “Too late to hide you,” he whispers. “Sit in that chair, don’t talk, keep your head down.” I follow his instructions, moving to the closest chair around the fire ring. A few others follow suit. An older woman throws a shawl over my head and stands in front of me.

The van pulls into the courtyard and two men wearing uniforms get out. I recognize the badges on their sleeves. Security.

“We need some workers,” one of them says. He’s tall and broad-shouldered and looks like he could handle any kind of work by himself.

Xavier steps forward. “It’s late, friend. We’ve already put in long days. We’re about to retire for—”

“Looks like you’re just getting started to us,” the shorter one says. “You can’t spare a few strong backs for some unloading at the docks?”

Non-pacts must be cheaper labor than Bots. No one responds.

“Maybe these Nops are so rich they don’t need work anymore.”

I grip the arms of my chair trying to remain seated. Last time I heard that term for a Non-pact I almost flew across a plaza at the man who said it. These two guys are clearly outnumbered and yet no one moves. The one guy is big—as big as me—but I could take him. At least I’d like to try, but the tension in the air tells me there’s more at stake here than insults. His words drip with authority and threat. Do this or you’ll never get work again. Or maybe worse.