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Wanting a friend, I pull Betwixt and Between from their perch and set them between my knees. There is a patch of dirt next to me and I experiment with marking it with my fingertip. I can draw fairly easily, rearranging the lumpy dust into patterns.

Closing my eyes, I stop procrastinating and begin to listen.

Nothing but Grey Brother’s breathing and my own heartbeat. Then nothing but the heartbeat. Then nothing.

Nothing. Or. Yes.

The metal is tired. It has held liquid that burned. Then the liquid was gone and the sides of the cylinder had collapsed the smallest amount inward in response to the missing internal pressure.

Wind. Rain. Outside. In? In. Weakest spots had given way or had been broken by vandals. Through these had come the refugees.

Rats. Bats. Cats. Dogs. A hawk that roosted in the upper rim. Mice. Small birds who nested on ladder rungs. Finally, people. One. Two. Many.

Pinpricks of pain as the ropes are hung, platforms and curtains suspended. An eerie sense of fullness and satisfaction at being full again after so long empty.

This all washes through me as the lines and scars on a man’s face tell you his life: that he loved the wind, never wore sunglasses, broke his nose in a brawl and was too proud to fix it. So the old tank that became the Jungle tells its tale to me.

I listen more closely and can hear individual reactions. The upper reaches are dark and empty. The ropes and hammocks weave a vacant web. The floor. Yes. That speaks. I draw a ragged breath, damp my ears to the myriad voices that seek to claim me, and focus.

The entire babble, even of this relatively limited area, is still too great. I make my way to an edge. This is better. I will inscribe the ring of the Jungle base first, then move in.

Now I lower my hand to the dirt and, with an improvised stylus made from a piece of wire, I draw what I hear.

First, the edges. My circle is wobbly but recognizable. I carefully mark the openings, their painted canvas screams Head Wolf’s mad vision of freedom while pulling the very whiskers of those who would lock him away.

Circling in, I find one of the Lesser Trails, a drainage pipe, its trapdoor hidden beneath a slab of metal. I mark it and continue on. Head Wolf’s lair, a crumpled mass of fabric calls to me, begging for repair and return. For a moment, I smell musk and man sweat and feel the stroke of his hands as I lean back against a mound of pillows.

I wrench myself away from the spot, for the memories are strong here and the place is alive with powerful passions—mine, his, others. I could grow lost in the clamor of memory.

Circle inward. Another Lesser Trail, this a weak spot in a wall, one that could be opened easily with a good heave of one of the hunks of stone piled with apparent carelessness nearby. The thin metal weeps of its aching sides to me. Fatigue will take it in a decade if not sooner.

Inward. Cookstove. Fire Circle. Song notes. A life choked out in a brief flash of violent sound. I mark the physical landmarks. The intangible I hurry past.

Then. Yes! This section nearly shrieks with recent noise: Children’s tears pool in the rough cracks in the metal floor; blood, still warm, congeals beside. The floor speaks of weight, heat. Burns where a bullet has gouged it.

Have they given up the dart guns then?

Feverishly, I mark what I can. The clump that I think is our people, scattered figures that may be guards. Only one is high up. Apparently, they do not trust the Web.

Almost by accident, I find another of the Lesser Trails, not far from the center of the Jungle. This one, I sense, is the one we wait near. It connects to a similar drainage system as the first.

Struggling for more detail, I am at last overwhelmed by the competing noises, stories, sounds, complaints, secrets. I fall away from the wall, obliterating an edge of my drawing. The important part remains, however.

For a few breaths, I hide my face in my hands. Then I look at Grey Brother, noticing that Abalone has returned.

“The rest is silence,” I say.

“She