Free Velveteen by Daniel Marks Page A

over time, as souls with the skills to construct it passed through. The final phase appeared to be turn-of-the-century work, but these halls, these walls and fractures, were old.
    Ancient, even.
    Not likely the work of human souls.
    “Now,” Manny said, and gestured for Quentin to stand beside her. “One at a time. Like I said, this isn’t a routine extraction. And the location is not exactly conducive to plopping you down all in the same place.” She nodded in Velvet’s direction. “You’ll also have the late hour to deal with. It’s past two in the morning.”
    Velvet sank. That would make things much more difficult.
    “Remember,” Manny said in a stern voice. “Follow protocol, and everyone makes it back. Got it?”
    “Yes, ma’am!” Velvet barked, and glanced around at her team.
    “Yes, ma’am!” the other Salvagers shouted in unison.
    Manny narrowed in on Velvet, a hint of playfulness in her eye. “I’ve been waiting to tick off your fifty-seventh soul for some time now, Velvet. I hope you won’t disappoint me.”
    “No, ma’am.” Velvet suspected Manny had a bet going with some of the other station agents—nothing she could prove, but the thought kind of lingered like a bad headache. Regardless, the woman reminded her that she was staring down the elusive number fifty-seven.
    A benchmark moment … like a centennial or a sweet sixteen.
    “Did you get a clear view of the involved?” Velvet asked.
    The station agent’s mouth tightened with distaste. “A medium. Madame Despot is her name.”
    Velvet nodded.
    With that, Manny leaned into Quentin and whispered. The boy nodded and moved to stand by the crack. She moved on to Logan and then Luisa and finally clutched Velvet around the shoulders and spoke softly into her ear.
    “Where you’re going, there’s a blue car with a flat tire. The police have labeled it for towing with bright orange wax lettering, an
L
and a seven. A cat with one blue eye and one brown scratches itself beneath a lamppost; a tiny bell jingles around its neck from a red necklace of yarn. A stack of newspaper has turned into a mound of rotting pulp, but still visible in its center is the image of a fireman carrying a crying baby wrapped in a tartan.”
    The pull-focus. Three details worked best.
    The car. The cat. The newspaper.
    Manny shook the flame off the long match, thrustingthem into dusky shadows. Then she stomped back toward the hub without another word.
    Velvet spun around to inspect the faces of her Salvagers, which was much more difficult now in the absence of a flame. Logan’s lip curled in a sneer. He gnashed his teeth and pumped his fist in the air. Ready. Luisa had the steely eyes of a hawk that was prepared to hunt. Quentin … well, he was busy scraping a pebble from the sole of his shoe with a thin rod of metal. On the upside, he was very focused on it, and Velvet figured that was a good thing.
    “Nice focus, Q,” she said.
    “Tha-thanks, Velvet,” he stuttered.
    She gave him a nod, and he mirrored her and gave her a thumbs-up, as though they shared some secret she wasn’t aware of. Velvet returned the gesture furtively.
    “You’re welcome.” She turned toward the crack and began to strip off her clothes. “Pass me a box, will ya?”
    One skittered across the floor and crashed into her leg.
    “Ow!” she yelped.
    “Sorry,” Quentin responded quickly. “Can’t see all that well in here, since there’s no light and all.”
    She was sure he meant that he couldn’t see her, though she knew for a fact he could, but she merely turned her back, stripped out of her clothes, and stuffed them into the box. She pressed herself close to the wall so the others could have their privacy.
    “Ready for number fifty-seven, Salvagers?” she asked, her voice echoing down the hall.
    “Yeah!”
    “Totally!”
    Velvet led the charge, pressing the tips of her fingers against the crack’s sharp edges, digging her nails in as far as she could. She felt for