“Hi. I’m Becky Smith, but everyone calls me B.” “Becky it is,” one of the boys laughs, and jogs across. He sticks out a hand—it’s covered by a glove and bandages. “I’m Mark,” he says as we shake hands. “I wasn’t there when you revitalized. They keep me out of stuff like that. Afraid I’ll react badly to the flames.” “What do you mean?” I ask. The boy gestures at himself. He’s covered completely from neck to toe, heavy clothes, some sort of a padded vest, more bandages, heavy-duty boots. “I got burned to the bone while I was a revived. They don’t know how. My face is okay but I’m like a skeleton under all these layers. I have to stay wrapped up. They’re worried that if I lose any more internal–” “Can it, Worm,” one of the other boys says. “You’d bore her to death if she wasn’t already dead.” He nods at me but doesn’t smile. He’s dark-skinned, with short curly hair. I would have shot him the finger six months ago in response to his nod.
