Almost every kid she’d ever known, herself included, squirreled crap away in their pockets. Before she’d discovered Swiss Army knives, Alex’s favorites had been rocks and chewing gum. She had no idea why, and her mother was always grousing about chewing gum that melted in the dryer.
But there was nothing in the boy’s pockets.
What kid carried nothing? Alex stared in disbelief at the jumble of tattered clothing she’d retrieved from the trash. The stink was terrible: blood and pus and months’ worth of dirt. The boy’s name was penned into his sneakers but too smeary from sweat and dirt for her to make out more than a J and an N. Or maybe M. His flannel shirt had only one ripped pocket, and his jeans pockets were riddled with holes.
She picked up a limp tongue of the boy’s olive-green jacket in one gloved hand. The jacket had faux-fur along the hood and a sagging, quilted, blaze-orange, zip-in lining. She hefted the jacket. Couldn’t tell a thing from the weight. But that was the beauty of a zippered lining. Since coming to Rule she’d certainly used hers to sneak supplies for her Great Escape. So she unzipped and then pulled the lining completely from the jacket.
Something metallic chinked to the floor. When she saw what it was, she clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle the scream.
Not a knife. Not a gun.
Her whistle.