Groundskeepers had piled the cart with fallen palm fronds, then retired to a nearby cafe for drinks. Nick slept in the shade between the wheels, hands behind his head, dirty shirt pulled up to reveal his thin stomach. Save for the scar his face was smooth and soft, the way mainlanders painted kings asleep or saints dead. She climbed under the truck and punched him in the ribs.He darted up, and she winced when his forehead struck the underside of the wagon. Nick awake resembled no king or saint Izza’d ever heard of. He cursed.“Language.”Confusion vanished when he heard her voice. “Izza.” He lay back on the cobblestones, and the top of his head grazed the cart’s undercarriage.“That all you have to say?”“I knew you made it out of the Plaza. I heard, from Ivy.”“Ivy has a big mouth,” Izza said. “You’re welcome, by the way.”“Thanks,” he said. “It was you who almost got me caught in the first place.”“You would have been caught sooner or later. I saved you.”“They fired me in the end anyway.
