Chapter 6 · Lost Things for Sale

The black market sits in Ironspine's guts. Three levels down from the ration square, past the checkpoints where guards don't ask questions if you slide them a protein bar. The air smells like rust and burnt wiring. Someone's cooking synthetic meat on a hot plate, and the smoke makes my eyes water.

I shouldn't be here. No food tag means I'm supposed to report to the military barracks by dawn. Steelhook made that clear. But the name Echo Lorne keeps bouncing around my skull, and I can't stop thinking about what Ashmark said. If anyone knows about memory loss, it's the broker.

The market's packed. People crowd around stalls selling scavenged tech, pre-collapse cigarettes, water filters that probably don't work. I keep my head down and my hands in my pockets. Don't look lost. Don't look new.

"First time?"

I turn. A kid, maybe twelve, grins at me. Gap-toothed. Dirt smeared on his cheek.

"No," I lie.

"Sure." He jerks his chin toward a corner stall, half-hidden behind a stack of crates. "You're looking for Echo. Everyone looks like that when they're looking for Echo."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Twenty grams of sand," the kid says.