Stupid, stupid, stupid! Before I was roughly tossed into the cold prison cell of the refuge, I'd had no idea that any such place existed. A jail for children? I would have never known, had I not been stupid enough to get myself put there. I wondered whether McCain's tantrum would have any effect on the length of my stay; she certainly had acted out at the warehouse. Surely she would spend a much longer time in the refuge than I...wouldn't she?

To be perfectly honest, I'd never met anyone so intimidating - or so ridiculous - in my life. What she lacked in height, she made up for in attitude and street smarts. The girl was calloused; that much was obvious. Now she lay on her back on the bottom of the two bunks in our cell, looking up at the bottom of my bunk. She hadn't spoken to me since our conversation in the carriage. Still, I decided that one of us would have to break the silence sooner or later if we were going to be stuck together in such close quarters. I looked up from my spot in the cold corner of the room. "Have you ever been here before?"

She glared at me. "What kind'a stupid question is that?"

"I just wondered."

"As if I have any reason to answer you." She remained silent for a long moment; then, to my surprise, she spoke again. "I've built up several years' worth of time in this joint. Pick-pocketing, gambling, the works. I've found my way out every time."

"Oh. So you've broken out?"

"No, I asked real nice." McCain snapped. "Why'd you follow us, anyway?"

"I was angry. And curious. I saw you from my bedroom window." I took a deep breath. "I'm the one who bumped into you outside the grocery this morning."

McCain swore. "You're that kid who ran into me? I should'a known. What was your problem, huh? I even helped ya pick up yer stuff!"

"My problem? I don't know...everything. Miss Hemingway, you, the rain...all of it."

"Who's that?" she asked.

"Headmistress of Hemingway School for Gifted Girls."

A snort of indignant laughter escaped McCain. "You? Gifted? Gimme a break."

I ignored her. "No, no. I work for her in return for meals and the attic room. My problem now is that I'll likely be out of a home and a job by the time we get out of here."

"Well, work ain't that hard to find in Manhattan."

I shrugged, gingerly fingering my bruised eye and wincing.

"That eye looks pretty nasty," she remarked triumphantly.

"Well, you don't look too bright-eyed yourself."

"I've had worse."

"I believe that."

"Ya know, you've got a smart mouth, kid," she muttered.

"Quit calling me 'kid'. I have a name."

"Do you think I care what your name is?"

"Maggie McCartney."

She sighed. "How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"I don't believe that," she said, glaring at me.

"How old are you, then?"

"Seventeen."

"Well, I don't believe you, either. You're too short to be seventeen," I said. Skweeker was at least three inches shorter than I, and I wasn't very tall myself.

"Don't bring my height into this! See that black eye? I can make a matchin' one for yer other eye."

"Okay, I won't bring your height into this if you'll believe me when I tell you that I'm sixteen years old."

"Fine. But I'm really seventeen." She was really glaring at me now.

"I believe you," I lied.

"It's late," Skweeker mumbled. "I'm gonna get some rest."

She rolled over to face the wall. I blew out the candle on the floor and crawled onto my bunk. The mattress was hard and the pillow was thin as a flapjack, but I tried to make the best of it and soon fell into a restless sleep.

Ch 6.