The Fog Diver by Joel Ross Page A

said.
    â€œOh!” Swedish nodded, satisfied. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
    Bea made a face. “Golfball sounds pretty violent.”
    â€œAnd it’s not just the other team you had to watch out for,” I told her. “The field also had sand traps and hazards and windmills.”
    â€œWindmills?” Hazel asked, quirking an eyebrow.
    â€œI’m not sure where those came in,” I admitted.
    â€œMaybe they milled grain while they played,” she suggested. “Makes more sense than whacking an egg with a cudgel.”
    We started walking faster as we neared our neighborhood, following a trash-ridden trail around the Spew—the river of sludge that seeped from mounds of garbage, winding its way around the slum before cascading into the Fog.
    Finally Bea sang out, “We’re home!”
    She disabled the booby trap we always set when weleft Mrs. E alone, then flung open the narrow door. The entryway was cluttered with splintery crate shelves and baskets of plastic bags from before the Fog. Whenever we weren’t on salvage runs, we wove the bags into sheets and sold them for handfuls of rice flour or lambs’ feet.
    â€œI’ll check if Mrs. E’s awake,” Bea said.
    Swedish grunted. “Not likely.”
    â€œShe was fine when we left!”
    â€œThat was yesterday,” Swedish said. “And she wasn’t fine, she was awake . There’s a difference.”
    Bea glared at him. “Well, I’ll check if she’s—”
    â€œHold on a second,” Hazel told her.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œFirst we need to talk.” Hazel rubbed her face. “We lost the raft. That’s seriously bad news. We can’t—”
    Mrs. E’s voice floated from the main room. “Children? Is that you?”
    Bea squealed and shot into the shack, with Swedish close on her heels. Hazel and I exchanged a hopeful look. Mrs. E was awake and didn’t even sound confused!
    The main room was slightly higher than the cramped entryway, with a rickety table, a woodstove, and a catch barrel for rain. Chopsticks and plastic bowls cluttered the cabinet, along with what Mrs. E called a “milk jug.” She insisted that people used to drink cow’s milk, which always made Bea giggle.
    Everyone knew that milk came from sheep and goats and camels.
    Once I saw Mrs. E sitting at the table, I forgot all about the foghead. She almost never left her bedroom these days—she almost never left her bed —so I felt myself smile at the sight of her. The scent of the four slices of honey bread on the table didn’t hurt, either.
    â€œMrs. E!” Bea hugged her fiercely. “We’ve got so much to tell you! The muties boarded us and they shot the cargo tether and—wait! First Chess went diving, and you’ll never guess what he found!”
    â€œMutineers?” Mrs. E’s clouded eyes narrowed. “They boarded the raft?”
    â€œThey wanted to kidnap me,” Bea said, “but Hazel stopped them, and then a balloon popped, but we kept the raft afloat until—”
    â€œSlow down, sweetie.” Mrs. E smiled, her voice gentle. “Have a bite of honey bread. Swedish, where are you? I can’t see you.”
    â€œI’m here.” He took one of her frail hands. “How did you afford the bread? You know they ’re watching us—”
    â€œStop fretting,” she told him. “A friend brought it.”
    â€œWho? You don’t have friends. You’re afraid friends might . . .” Swedish trailed off, glancing at me. “Y’know.”
    â€œExpose our secrets,” Hazel finished.
    â€œHe’s a very old friend,” Mrs. E said with a strange note in her voice. “He just found me again, after many years.”
    Hazel twisted a braid around her finger. “Is something wrong? What is it?”
    â€œStop thinking so much,” Mrs. E scolded Hazel. “I’ll