An eight-fingered man with a shaved head joined Terrence on the steps of the Bazaar as darkness began pooling in the field. Like most scavengers, the man wore tattered clothing but his athletic shoes looked brand new, hardly scuffed. He carried an ammo container under each arm. He said nothing to Terrence. Terrence said nothing to him.

Few people walked past in the hours Terrence had been waiting. He heard occasional bursts of gunfire from outside the walls, shouts, running footsteps. A guard ordered someone away from the wall but that incident ended as quickly as it had begun. Later, a woman collected the children playing in the yard. Terrence strained his ears but heard nothing ominous: no marching, no target practice, no orders being barked. He did, however, hear the occasional explosion of women's laughter coming from the dormitory next door. The upper floors looked burned out and boarded up, but first two floors had several windows with lights on. He wondered how many people lived there, and was curious about the conditions inside.

A jingle of keys followed by the thunk of a deadbolt interrupted his thinking. The door shuddered and opened a crack. Terrence scrambled to his feet as the other man wordlessly shoved past him. The door to the Bazaar opened to a broad hall dimly lit by a single gas lamp. A grand wooden staircase stretched upwards into darkness. The entryways to other corridors were blocked by wrought-iron gates, except for a well-lit room off to his right. The only sound was the distinctive sound of a generator. As Terrence headed to the lit room, he had a feeling he was being watched.

Tall lamps stood in each corner, casting light upward at the twelve-foot ceiling. An electric chandelier shone brightly overhead. Tucked in a corner, the generator puttered quietly, the cords expertly concealed. Rich red tapestries covered the walls. Beneath the canvas runner he walked on, a plush carpet sunk beneath Terrence's feet. Countertop display cases divided the room, two-thirds for the proprietor and his wares and the remainder for customers. A series of six-foot tall gun lockers lined the back wall. Footlockers and ammo boxes formed a knee-high maze on the floor. Large, hand-painted signs were tacked to each wall reading: WARNING: YOU ARE IN THE SITES OF FOUR GUNMEN AT ALL TIMES. ONE FALSE MOVE & BLAM-O!!!

Terrence bent to examine the merchandise in the case. A dozen different knives, a variety of clubs, batons, shivs, a few pair of brass knuckles. One case over were a dozen different kinds of handguns: four or five revolvers and just as many pistols. On the lower shelf were pipe bombs, dynamite, even a few smoke canisters. And that was only half the case. Racks displayed rifles, shotguns, and machine guns of varieties Terrence had never seen, not even in books.

The eight-fingered man was muttering in a low voice to the lone attendant behind the counter. One lockbox was open, the other still shut.

Terrence heard a magazine being released and then shoved back into place. The ammo box shut with a clang and the eight-fingered man said in a weary voice, "Yes on these. But for these, forget it."

Terrence heard paper tearing and a second later the eight-fingered man turned on his heel, one ammo box under his arm and the other on the counter, and exited. The other figure ducked beneath the counter and emerged a moment later. "Next," he said and motioned to Terrence.

The man's tattered baseball hat cast a shadow across his wrinkled face, yet he exuded an air of patience. He was gaunt; his well-worn flannel draped over his shoulders as if on a hanger. His thin hands worked deftly and at speed as he sprung the lock and opened Terrence's box, all without glancing up. As he removed the weapons he said, "Don't think I recognize you. First time here?" Terrence nodded. The man squinted one eye shut as he examined the barrel of the semi-automatic.

"I'm Barnum. You MPD?"

Terrence shook his head, surprised at his bluntness.

Barnum grunted. "Buying, selling, trading?"

"Trading or selling," Terrence said. He pointed at the semi-automatic but careful not to put his hand too near it. "That one's mine. Everything else can go."

Barnum grunted again. "Figures. The semi's the only valuable one. I doubt this one could fire a clip without jamming and the revolver looks spent. I have to pass on those. These butterfly knives just need a good sharpening though. How you want it? Trade for ammo? House credit?"

"Credit?"

"We keep books if you want to come back, or you can use it now on whatever you want. Food. Lodging. Ladies. They'll make you bathe first though and there's a charge for warm water," he said as aside. "Ladies set their own prices. You're young though. Might haggle one down if you're a smooth talker."

"No ladies," Terrence said quickly. He couldn't help think of Alcy and wonder when was the last night they spent together. "Lodging though. I wouldn't mind sleeping in a bed for a change."

"With bath and toilet? You look like you could use them. The room comes with one pitcher of hot water."

Terrence thought. "Deal."

In a flash Barnum swept the knives from the counter and deposited the three handguns back in the ammo box, along with two fresh magazines. He snapped it shut and shoved it across the counter. He jotted down a code on a notepad, tore it off, and tucked it into Terrence's palm. "Exit and wait by the second gate on your left. I saw you reading on the porch so feel free to take a book or two up with you. Just return them in the morning."

When he stepped back into the hall, he Terrence sensed something different. It smelled of freshly cut flowers, or honey, or some combination of the two. When he stepped to the second gate, a smiling woman emerged from the darkness and, with great theatricality, struck a match and put it to a candle. She was older than Terrence, probably in her late 40s, and wore a snug silk robe that clung to her full figure in a pleasing way. She reached through the bars and said, "Your receipt, sugar?"

She led him by candlelight down a corridor to a room almost large enough to hold a twin bed, a bathtub, and two adults. She leaned over to show him how to work the tub and nearly spilled out of her top. As she bent Terrence discovered her robe was much shorter than he had realized. The woman touched her candle to another stationed on the shelf and they watched as the wick took the flame. She batted her eyelashes and reread the receipt. " Just the room? Sure that's all you want, sugar?"

Terrence nodded. He felt strangely embarrassed, out of place.

Her eyes seemed to ask the question again. This time he shook his head. He had forgotten the question or maybe the answer. She let out a small laugh, then winked and drew the door closed behind her as she left the room.

Terrence realized he was holding his breath.