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“It’s a time war we’re fightin’, but we are resilient. We’ve held our breath beneath ground for centuries—can we can hold it just a little longer, for our freedom?”

“YES!” Hollering ensued. The woman on the tabletop stood tall in her apparent elation and knocked her head against a brass pendant light.

When the last hurrah died, Patrick wiped the sweat from his brow, sniffed once, then said, with no small amount of resignation: “Right. Complaints?”

The herd surged forward, all of them at once. I watched Patrick’s jaw tighten.

It went on for longer than I could stand.

“The drains round Blinder Street need clearin’ again! An’ not by old Frank—his knees don’t take the strain and the job don’t get finished.”

“The Eastern mine is bogging, Pat—soon the whole fuckin’ hill will slide right into town!”

“Those Wembley kids are runnin’ free in the street, day and night. Left cat shit on my damn doormat again! If they can’t be controlled, I’ll—”

“I want fair compensation from that lousy dust collector. He broke a wheel and spilled soot all over my hydrangeas!”

Such trivial grievances. None seemed worthy of mention in wartime,and I grew quickly irritated. But Patrick listened, nodding to each complaint as the woman I presumed to be his mother scribed them. The sheets of parchment before her piled at an alarming rate.

How entitled these people were? How utterly oblivious to the fires outside their fortress?

From the looks on their faces, Donny, Scottie, and Briggs shared my opinion. Their expressions soured with each passing minute.

I watched Patrick carefully, saw how he took the brunt without remark or reaction. I wondered how many pieces made up the whole of him, beyond his bloodied fists and the flask inside his vest. Beyond the dog waiting for him by the window bay and the tin lighter he’d kept since his childhood… Had the boy I’d met been snuffed out somewhere between twelve and twenty-five? I desperately wanted to ask.

I also wanted to feel nothing for him at all.You don’t know this man, I shouted in the chambers of my mind, banging the walls to ensure I paid attention. It did nothing to drown the sudden defensiveness clawing inside me as these people made their demands.

But you do know him, another voice hummed.It all began with him.

Eventually the grievances diluted to things like soil quality and a “peculiar smell” behind the scrapyard, and I sensed the meeting was finally concluding. Patrick’s mother banged her pencil on the countertop and put her fingers between her lips, whistling at an aching decibel.

“We’re done,” she shouted, glaring at the crowd. They fell deathly silent. “No whiskey. You can have another dark mild before you trot off home, but if you fight, Gunner and Scottie will be escortin’ you.”

A low rumble of conversation arose, but no dissent.

I thought most would leave—the pub had grown oppressively hot. Instead, someone began clanging the keys on the piano, the volume rose to an earsplitting revelry, and the men and women continued on with a sense of ease, apparently lighter after having aired the soft inconveniences in their lives.

“Bunch of whinging pricks,” muttered Briggs as he lit a cigar with a match. “It’ll be a busy day tomorrow, boys.”

Donny nodded. “I’ll take care of the coal collector. He’s on the bluff again, droppin’ dust all over the place.”

“You and your brother need to find where on God’s green earth it’s comin’ from, Donny,” Scottie said. “Ain’t no point takin’ their bluff where they can make more.”

Donny scrubbed his face, looking tired. “It’ll mean another raid.”

“Fuck me,” Briggs mumbled, pulling deeply on the cigar. “I’d prefer the fuckin’ tunnels—”

“Shut up, Briggs. We’re incompany,” Donny said sharply. Briggs eyed me with suspicion and fell silent.

I bristled. “Patrick told me about the tunnels.”

“Did he, now?” Donny seemed unperturbed. “Did he threaten to leave you down one of them?”

My jaw ticked. “No,” I said. “Though leaving me in a tunnel wouldn’t render much use.”

Scottie was smiling at me, entertained.

“No?” Donny said, leaning his forearms on the table and looking smug in his gold-buttoned waistcoat. “Taken a fancy to you, has he? Well, bully for you—whatever keeps you aboveground.”