Then he began throwing chunks of Parmesan cheese out into the crowd.

The result was instant pandemonium. Desperately hungry kids rushed for the cheese, pushed, shoved, shouted, threatened, waved weapons, beat, kicked, clawed, cried, and cried some more. And as soon as any of them had a hand on some morsel of cheese, they began to stuff it into their mouths like hyenas rushing to eat a wildebeest before the lion came back.

“I’m going to—” Edilio began.

Albert cut him off. “No! Do nothing!”

Then, as the cheese ran out and the riot calmed, and kids were left to stanch the flow of bloody noses, Albert began setting up his signs, one by one.

The first one read:

These kids are going to starve if they sit here watching you.

The second one read:

They need to get back to work. If you keep them here, they will die.

The third one read:

I can feed them if they work. Go away or stay and watch them die.

The fourth:

You can visit from 5 p.m. to 8 p.m. daily. Now leave.

The last sign read:

Alberco: Feeding your kids. Albert Hillsborough, CEO.

To the stunned and now bruised and bloodied crowd of kids Albert said, “I’m going to make this simple. I’m shutting Quinn down, so no more fish. You just had the last food you get unless you get back to work. Everyone will resume their old jobs. If you’ve come here from the lake, either go back to the lake or see me for a work assignment.”

It would work right now, Albert thought, or it wouldn’t work ever.

A single voice muttered something about Albert trying to push everyone around. Albert ignored it.

“Now, wave good-bye to your families or whatever, and let’s get back to work.”

Kids started to move. A few at first, then more. Some of those on the outside, some of the parents and siblings, started to retreat tearfully.

The TV cameras did not retreat. Instead they swiveled toward Albert. Albert looked impressive. He wasn’t a big kid, he was still a bit of a shrimp, but he was wearing clean and pressed khakis and a somewhat too large, pink, immaculate Ralph Lauren button-down shirt.

Albert pulled a six-inch-long tube from his pocket, unscrewed one end, and tapped out a fat cigar. Among the things he had discovered on the island was a humidor. He used a small chrome blade to snip one end of the cigar, stuck it in his mouth, lit it with a matching cigar torch, and puffed out a cloud of smoke.

Albert knew two things at that moment. First, that his signs, and the image of him right now, standing as tall as he could and playing the role of arrogant businessman, would be on every newscast in the world.

And second, he knew that from this moment forward his recent error would be forgotten and if he lived to get out of the FAYZ he would be a millionaire before he even went to college.

“You did the right thing sending for me, Edilio,” Albert said.

Edilio sighed.

Along with many other things from the old days, bikes had become a luxury in the FAYZ. Many had been destroyed out of sheer vandalism or stupidity—attempting the kinds of stunts that were harder to do with adults around, such as riding down the steps of the town hall or setting up a ramp to jump over a car.

Dahra had helped some of the kids who’d tried that last one. And at least one kid who had tried to ride a bike through a window. And another who’d thought he could ride a bike off his roof. Lana had refused to heal them at first on grounds that they were idiots.

And there had been blown tires, broken chains, all the mishaps that occurred, along with parts being stolen and bikes being repurposed to make wheelbarrows. So Dahra’s own bike—a relic of better days that she had kept hidden underneath a tarp in her garage—was a rarity. It had been kept in one piece. But the tires had long since gone flat and Dahra had wasted much of the day before looking for a pump before finally finding one in a neighbor’s garage. She was concerned that she was now too late and Astrid would miss meeting Connie Temple. But hey, this was the FAYZ, this was not the world where all you had to do to get someplace was nag your parents into driving you. She would do her best. That’s all she could do.

There had been times in the history of the FAYZ when she would have expected to be set upon by gangs or by coyotes as she rode out of town, but at the moment most of the population was up against the barrier and not paying much attention. And most people thought the coyotes had been finished off by Brianna anyway.

The highway was an eerie graveyard of cars wrecked at the moment the FAYZ occurred, and of course others that had been vandalized or burned out since. Every single one had been broken into by kids searching for food or drugs or alcohol. The batteries were all long since dead, gas tanks evaporated or drained off.

Dahra weaved her way through the wrecks and around debris and drifting trash. From Perdido Beach to the lake was just about the maximum distance you could go in the FAYZ. A full day’s walk for sure, but not quite as bad by bike, although sticking to the roads made it less direct.

She passed the turnoff to the power plant, the center point of the FAYZ and more or less the halfway mark for her. The Santa Katrina hills rose off to the right, shadowed by the rising sun, and now she had to choose which road to take. The nearest was gravel and dirt, which would be hard with a bike. If she rode on into the Stefano Rey National Park she’d find a better-paved but steeper road—at least that’s what kids said; Dahra had never been. The wooded part would be shadier, too, and that sounded good. It was hot and she was out of shape. She had spent most of the last year in the basement of the town hall, down in the so-called hospital, reading medical books and doling out the dwindling supply of medicine.