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Ambros dropped in to a spot deep in a huge brake of blackberry brambles. He pushed an invisible tarp aside, revealing the small encampment concealed by the Commonwealth light-bending material. The month of February had come in; it was colder and rainier than January, a truly miserable time to be sleeping rough or camping in leaky nylon tents.
Since the authorities had broken up the organized camps in the Swamp, the various sub-groups of the hapless and homeless had made shift to find other places to be. Ambros knew that there were several in that area, along the river downstream from the Rose Gardens.
Arlen stood there, tears on his face, his panic button in hand. Ambros swallowed, knowing before Arlen spoke what must have happened.
“When?” he asked.
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