A voice woke him up. A child’s voice.

The child was singing softly to himself. Ron saw that he was about six years old. His song made no sense. Either it was in a language that Ron didn’t understand, or it was no language at all—just nonsense sounds. The boy’s voice was high and thin. His face was very serious, as if the song was really important. His eyes were big and dark, his hair also dark, curly. His skin was a deep olive. He had skinny arms and legs, and his clothes were ragged. He was sitting on a floor littered with paper, cans and metal foil containers, rags and one old bottomless shoe. He sat with his knees tucked up close to his chin, his hands clasped around his skinny little ankles, rocking back and forth, singing.

Looking around without moving his head, Ron saw that he was in a strange room. More like a closet, it was so small. The ceiling had so many cracks in it that it looked like a road map. Huge chunks of plaster were missing from it and from the bare walls, showing crumbling lathe inside.

Ron tried to prop himself up on one elbow. His head spun dizzily, but the pain was nowhere near as bad as it had been before.

“Hey! He’s awake!” screamed the little boy. He jumped to his feet and raced out of the room.

Head spinning, Ron sat all the way up. He was on a grimy, torn mattress that was resting flat on the floor. A greasy-looking blanket covered his legs. The room had no windows, so he couldn’t tell whether it was day or night.

There was a blurry mirror hanging crookedly on one wall. A corner of it was broken and a crack ran up its whole length. Ron couldn’t tell if his face really looked as bad as it seemed, or if the mirror was making things worse than they really were. There was a huge shiner under his right eye and another big blue bruise along his left cheekbone. Holding up his left hand, he saw that it was still nearly black and swollen. But he could wiggle the fingers a little. Nothing broken.

He was drenched with sweat. The room was like an oven; no air moving at all.

Somebody came to the door that the boy had left open. Sylvia.

“You . . .” Ron began. Then he realized that he didn’t know what he wanted to say.

She came over and knelt beside his mattress. “I was so scared you was gonna die.”

“What happened? Where are we?”

She touched the bruise on his cheek, very lightly, just a fingertip. “Poor Ron . . . It was Dino. Him and some of his goons was waitin’ fer you outside th’ hotel.”

It was almost funny. “And I was worried about you.”

“About me?” She looked surprised.

“I was afraid he’d try to hurt you.”

“Oh, Ron!” She put her arms around his shoulders. It hurt, he was still aching. But he held her there for a long moment.

Sylvia said into his ear, “I came back t’ th’ hotel to see if you was okay. I found you in th’ lobby. I got you out just a coupla minutes before th’ hardtops got there.”

“Hardtops?”

“Helmet-heads. Cops.” She pulled away from him. “Some tourist musta called ’em. If th’ hardtops get you, they toss you in th’ Tombs.”

“But I’m a visitor. They can’t do that.”

“You got no money, no ID, nothin’, right?”

“Oh . . . but still . . .”

“They woulda thought you were a gang kid. Or some weirdo got himself freaked out and beat up.”

“Then—how do I get out? What day is it, anyway?”

“It’s Monday, Labor Day. Th’ gates close t’night at midnight and they won’t open again ’till next summer. For tourists.”

“I’ve got to get out!” Ron started to get up.

Sylvia put a hand on his shoulder. “Hold on, hold on. We’ll getcha out. Al’s gonna be here soon. Right? He’ll figger out what t’do. You jest rest. Dino went over you pretty good.”

Ron frowned. “How many of them were there?”

“I dunno,” she said. “Four or five. Maybe six.”

The little boy came back in. His eyes were wide with excitement. “Al’s comin’! He’s comin’ up here right now!”

Then he raced out of the room again.

“Al knows what t’do,” Sylvia said again.

For some reason that he didn’t fully understand himself, Ron wanted to be on his feet when Al came in. He started to struggle up. Sylvia helped him.

The boy popped in again, his face red and sweaty. “He’s here! Al’s right here!”

Ron expected to see a tall, broad-shouldered, steel-eyed leader of men. Instead, the guy who stepped into the room was about his own age, short and wiry. He was much smaller and skinnier than Dino. There was a scar running across his chin and odd-looking wrinkles around his eyes.

“This is th’ dude, huh?” Al’s voice was soft, quiet.

Sylvia answered, “He’s gotta be out before midnight or—”

“I know,” Al said. “You an’ th’ kid split.”

“But—”

“Split.”

Sylvia gave Ron a worried glance. Then she tried to smile and said, “Good-bye, Ron.”

“I’ll see you later,” Ron said as she went to the door.

Al looked Ron up and down. “Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

“Okay. I’ll give you directions t’ th’ nearest gate in th’ Dome. It’s about thirty blocks from here.”

“Wait a minute,” Ron said. “Before I go anywhere, I want my money back. And my ID and credit cards.”

Al just stared at him.

“Well—you’re supposed to know how to do things. How do I get this Dino guy? Do I have to call the police, or what?”

“The hardtops?” Al broke into a laugh. “The hardtops? Last time they was down here half of ’em never got out. They ain’t been around here fer years.”