A few residents still remained on the streets. They seemed familiar with Patrick, nodding or making way for him as he passed. Those who looked at me averted their eyes quickly. I imagined I resembled a beggar of sorts, but I cared very little. I had forgotten the dirty clothes sticking to my skin, the ache of my legs. My neck craned as I tried to discern more of the buildings and their strange facades. “What do the pipes carry?”
“Gas,” he said. “Water.”
I shook my head in wonder. “Simple Crafters, you said.”
He only nodded.
“What of your police?” I asked, for every town had government-instated police. “Or the Scribblers?”
“We’re a small town, miss. We’ve only ever had the one Scribbler. A handful of police.”
“And you aren’t worried someone will recognize me? That they might turn me i
