chapter 1
The scrap yard woke before the sun. A thin wind whistled through stacked car skeletons and shook the tin roofs of the shanty lane that everyone still called "the settlement." Kaleb, who was nineteen and already marked by soot, pushed open the plywood door and inhaled the cold smell of rust. Another day, another search for copper wire that could slice through gloves and skin. He walked barefoot to save his shoes. Gravel bit into his soles, but the pain felt familiar, like the cough that lived in his chest every winter. At the yard's gate, Old Mira was already bargaining with the foreman.
"Two kilos of clean wire, that's all I got," she insisted, shaking a plastic bag.
The foreman snorted. "Show me."
Kaleb slipped past them, eyes down. If you looked too eager, they docked your pay. By seven, the sun had climbed the crane tower and turned the broken windscreens into sharp blades of light. Kaleb's bag was still light. He needed one good haul before the market opened; otherwise, breakfast would be yesterday's crusts again. He crawled under a half-crushed shuttle van, pulled at a cable, and hit his elbow on the axle.
"Damn."
"Need a hand?"
A girl's voice, calm and almost amused.
He jerked sideways and smacked his head this time. She crouched outside the van, wearing a plain grey jacket that was too thin for the season. No gloves, no bag of scrap—just a roll of tape in her hand.
"I'm fine," he muttered.
"You're bleeding," she said, pointing at his elbow.
A thin red line crawled across the grease on his skin. He licked it without thinking and tasted iron. She tore a strip of tape and offered it. "Press hard."
He hesitated—nothing was free in the yard—then took it. "Thanks."
"Name?"
"Kaleb."
"Sera," she answered, as if it cost nothing.
An engine coughed nearby, and the foreman shouted for everyone to clear the crusher zone. Kaleb wiped his elbow and grabbed his nearly empty sack. "Better move."
Sera fell in step beside him. "Where to?"
"Market. I sell what I have, buy breakfast."
"I'm headed that way."
She didn't look like scrap folk, but Kaleb had learned not to waste breath on questions that didn't matter. They walked the dirt track toward the city's formal streets. Dust rose with every step. Sera kept pace effortlessly, her hands in her pockets.
"First time here?" he asked.
"First time counting on it," she replied, smiling sideways.
The market square was already loud. Vendors slapped prices on chalkboards, and music crackled from a blown speaker. Kaleb dumped his meager wires on the scale. The buyer, a woman with lime-green nails, pushed the weights.
"One-fifty. Take it or leave it."
Kaleb's stomach sank. "That's half yesterday's rate."
"Yesterday the foundry paid more. Today they don't."
He took the coins, his fingers sticky with grease. When he turned, Sera was gone.
He found her at a fruit stall, pointing at bruised oranges.
"Four for a quarter," the vendor barked.
She reached into her jacket. Kaleb stepped between them. "Don't. He's overcharging."
The vendor glared. "You buying or preaching?"
Kaleb's pride flared. He counted out two of his new coins. "Six oranges, fair price."
The vendor shrugged and bagged them.
Outside the stall, Kaleb handed Sera the bag. "Breakfast."
She peeked inside. "You paid your whole morning for this."
"Wasn't much of a morning."
She pulled out two oranges and handed the rest back. "Share."
He wanted to refuse, but hunger won. They leaned against a railing, juice running over their knuckles.
"Sweet," she said.
"Better than crusts," he admitted.
A drop of juice slid to her wrist; she caught it with her tongue. For a moment, he forgot about the market noise.
A sudden wind whipped the canvas roof of a nearby stall, tearing one corner loose and making a metal pole clang. The vendor cursed and struggled to hold his goods. Without thinking, Kaleb jumped forward, grabbing the flapping canvas. Sera followed, pinching the fabric.
"Tie here," Kaleb ordered. She threaded the rope while he knotted it. The wind died, and the crisis was over.
The vendor wiped sweat from his brow. "Thanks, kids. Take what you want."
They left with two bruised apples each.
"Teamwork," Sera said.
"Temporary," Kaleb corrected, but he felt lighter.
Noon bells rang from the city hall. Kaleb's next shift at the yard didn't start until dusk. Most days he passed time wandering to avoid spending money he didn't have.
Sera crunched her apple core. "Show me the river."
"The river's polluted."
"Still water reflects the sky," she replied.
He laughed—short and surprised at himself. "You'll need shoes if we walk the embankment."
She lifted a foot: her soles were clean and unscarred. "Guess I will."
They detoured past the charity bin. He found her cracked vinyl sneakers, two sizes too big. She stuffed newspaper in the toes.
"Fashion statement," she declared.
He snorted. "Come on, Princess."
The nickname slipped out; he expected anger, but she simply grinned and started walking.
The river stank of detergent and diesel. They followed the service path where weeds pushed up through broken cement. Barges groaned past, loaded with scrap.
Sera stopped at a crumbling jetty and sat on the edge with her sneakers dangling.
"Your family around here?" she asked.
Kaleb shrugged. "Mom cleans offices at night. My little brother stays with a neighbor. You?"
"Not close."
He waited; she didn't offer anything more. Silence felt comfortable, like sharing a blanket.
A patrol boat sliced through the water, its siren brief. Sera flinched. He noticed.
"Trouble?" he asked.
"Old reflex," she said, forcing a smile. "Got any dreams, Kaleb?"
"Eat every day. Maybe a room with a lock."
"Big dreams."
"What about yours?"
She squinted across the water. "Learn how to be small."
He thought that was funny. "People aim big."
"I've seen big," she murmured. "Small looks harder."
He didn't understand, but the way she stared at the horizon made his chest tighten. He tossed a stone; it skipped once and sank.
"Race you to the bridge," she said suddenly, jumping up.
"You'll lose."
"Try me."
They ran. Her oversized shoes slapped against the pavement; he overtook her but slowed down without knowing why, letting her reach the pillar first. She slapped the concrete and laughed, breathless.
"Victory," she declared.
"Beginner's luck."
She bent over, hands on her knees. A strand of hair stuck to her lip; he almost reached to brush it away but caught himself.
Evening bled orange. They walked back toward the settlement, their stomachs rumbling. Neon signs flickered on, advertising diners he couldn't afford.
Sera stopped outside a noodle stall. Steam filled the cold air.
"Two bowls," she told the cook before Kaleb could protest.
"I pay my own," he muttered.
She looked him in the eye. "Let me. You fed me oranges."
Pride itched, but the smell of broth weakened him. "Next time it's my turn."
"Deal."
They sat on plastic stools with their knees touching. He ate quickly, afraid someone might steal his food. She watched, amused, then pushed her half-finished bowl toward him.
"Can't," he said.
"Stomach shrank," she lied. "Don't waste."
He finished, feeling ashamed and grateful.
Night buses lined the depot with their engines idling. Sera pointed at the one going closest to the settlement.
"Fare?" he asked.
She pulled out a crisp bill—more than he made in a week. He stared.
"Side job," she said quickly. "Got lucky."
He wanted to ask her what she did, but the driver honked. They climbed aboard and sat in the back where the seats sagged. The bill disappeared into the box with a mechanical swallow.
Streetlights blinked across her face. She looked younger or older—he couldn't decide.
"Tomorrow?" she asked.
"Yard opens at four."
"I'll meet you after."
He nodded, feeling a lump in his throat. No one ever volunteered to come back.
The bus dropped them off near the lane's entrance. Kerosene lamps flickered inside shacks. Dogs barked.
"Almost curfew," he said. "You… staying around?"
"Got a place."
He waited; she didn't invite him or explain.
"Thanks for the ride," he managed.
She touched his sleeve quickly and lightly. "Sleep well, Kaleb."
Then she walked into the dark, her sneakers making a soft flapping sound.
He lay on his cot later, listening to the rats chew the walls, and thought about broth, taped canvas, and her hand almost brushing against his. Everything felt different, as if someone had loosened a screw inside him and the world now wobbled in a new, interesting way.
One week later, they stood in the civil registry, smelling of disinfectant and old paper. Kaleb wore a washed shirt—borrowed and too big. Sera had on the same grey jacket, but somehow, it looked new. Two strangers signed as witnesses: a janitor on break and a woman waiting for birth records.
The clerk droned out the vows; Kaleb's tongue felt stuck to his teeth. When the stamp thudded down, the sound seemed larger than the room.
Rings: she pulled out a plain silver band from her pocket and slid it onto his finger.
"Matches mine," she said.
He wanted to ask where the money had come from, but her eyes stopped him—bright, scared, and daring.
Outside, the cold wind celebrated.
"So," he started.
"So," she echoed, then laughed, free and sudden. "Hungry?"
"Starving."
"Good. We'll eat till we feel ordinary."
They found a cheap motel that rented by the hour and paid for the night. The room smelled of mildew and fried onions. A single bulb buzzed. They sat on the narrow bed and shared take-out rice, their elbows bumping.
"Tomorrow I'll find extra shifts," Kaleb said. "Get us a real place."
She leaned her head against his shoulder.