Ryder smiled. “That’s where you’re wrong, boy. Ask your mom who decides.” He gripped the back of Conner’s neck and squeezed. Conner wanted to punch the bigger boy, but he knew how badly that would go. There were three of them, and his boots were pinched. “There are men in these dunes and then there are little boys like you. I’m a sand diver, and we take what we find. And I found her first.”

“You’re a trainee,” Conner said. “You’re not even a sand—”

There was a flash of rage on Ryder’s face—a horrible spasm of bared teeth and wrinkled brow—just before the sands opened and Conner was sucked down.

Conner’s mouth filled with grit. The earth had opened for him, dropping him down beneath sand as loose as water. His feet hit something solid below. Swimming with his arms, his head bumped into a wall of sand above. There were walls on all sides. Ryder had made a solid box filled with flowing sand, a death coffin.

Conner sealed his lips, half a dune in his mouth, the loud crunch of grit between his teeth, and fought the urge to swallow or spit. Only had the barest of lungfuls. Had been talking. But his sister had done this to him before, had taught him to be calm, to last a minute or more. If he counted to ten, Ryder would bring him up. He was just trying to scare him. Conner thought this, but part of his brain screamed: We’re gonna fucking drown. Do something, asshole.

With sand burning his eyes, Conner fumbled blindly at his father’s boots. His head flipped upside down. He had to remember which way was up. Had to remember. Goddamn, he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t swallow. He hit the power switch under the tongue of the left boot with one hand and pulled the band out of his pocket with the other. C’mon, Rob, he thought. C’mon, brother.

Conner pressed the band to his forehead, couldn’t feel anything, too much sand between the contacts. Damn thing was upside down, that’s why. The wires were coming out the top. He tried it again. Could feel the sand now. No idea if this would be strong enough. Needed to be stronger than Ryder. Was about to black out. Had to go. Had to go. With desperation, he didn’t flow the sand so much as explode it. Arms over his head, expecting a collision, hoping this was up, that this was up, not sure—he felt the sandwall above him shatter, felt his arm break the surface, his head and then his entire body rising out of the sand.

The other boys lost their footing in the flow. Conner was on his hands and knees, spitting the grit out of his mouth—grit that had turned to mud. He coughed and wheezed, and the black edges of his vision receded. Arms and legs weak, he fumbled for the band, tried to get it back on his head before they came at him again. Damn—the boots—strong as a whole suit. Shouldn’t have been possible. Fucking Rob—

A hand clenched over his knuckles and squeezed into a fist, the bones of his fingers grinding together. Conner dropped the band and grimaced in agony. Ryder was down on one knee, casting a long shadow over him, his face a mask of rage.

“You think you’re a diver, boy?” Conner watched as Ryder grabbed the band with his free hand and yanked it free, ripping the wires. “Patrol would bury you for this.” He shook the band in front of Conner’s face, and the grip with his other hand tightened, crushing his knuckles. “You’re lucky I don’t tell them. That’s your life I just saved.” Ryder spit into the sand and dropped the band. “I fucking own you. Don’t you forget that, Whoreson. I own you like every man in Springston owns your goddamn mother.”

A swift kick in the ribs for punctuation. And then the boys were back to laughing. The sand trembled and opened up, and they dove and disappeared.

Conner rested his forehead on the warming sand and took deep breaths. When he spit, it colored the sand like a sunrise. This is my life, he thought miserably. But not for long.

15 • Sins of a Father

Conner got up and dusted himself off, probed his tender ribs. A sip of water swished and spat got most of the grit out of his mouth. His anger soon abated. It was from looking down—not at the pink sand between his father’s boots—but at the old band torn loose and curled amid a tangle of wires.

He stooped to retrieve the band and inspected it again. Ryder would’ve let him up. Was just messing with him. Damn, he should’ve just waited it out. But the boots—he remembered how solid the sand had felt the night before, clenched around Rob’s legs. Scanning the training dunes, he looked toward the school. He still needed to get jerky, but another quick errand first. His trip that evening just got more interesting. He needed to show a friend these boots.

Around the corner from the school stood a line of shops that catered to scavengers. Used suits, visors, repair stalls, fins, electronics, all the scraps and tools of the trade. This was an industry honed by abrasive necessity. Practically all of Springston, Shantytown, Low-Pub, Pike, and the gardens to the west were built with dredged spoils from beneath the sands. The mounds of dirt that rose up and were in shallow enough sand to reclaim had been discovered by divers. The same divers who went on to do the digging. Water, gas, and oil pumps relied on divers. It was the industry on which all others were founded, which is why the death toll hardly dented the number of enthusiastic volunteers and why most of the kids who dreamed of entering dive school found packs of others standing before them. It was why many never got the chance.

Conner hurried through the bustling Saturday markets in the dive district and down one of the side alleys that kept creeping along with the dunes. He let himself into Graham’s, one of the larger shops. An annoying collection of bells and chimes clattered and rang as the top of the door struck them. Inside, the walls were covered in artifacts. Mirrors and clocks, pumps and small motors, coils of wire and tubing and pipe, and bin after bin of bolts, washers, and nuts. Across the high ceiling hung the remains of dozens of bicycles. Conner had to duck under a few of these.

Most of the goods that studded the walls and hung from the rafters had been brought up by Graham himself. The rest had been bartered for with something else he’d discovered. Despite appearances and the occasional price tag, hardly any of it was for sale. Convincing Graham to part with a single washer could take weeks of pleading. Trade was the only coin that worked, and Graham always got the better end of the deal. He was a pain in the ass, but had been good friends with their father, which meant getting work done even without an official dive card from the Guild.

“Graham?” Conner let himself through the counter and peered into the workshop. Graham glanced up from his bench. He had a wire brush in one hand and what looked like part of a rifle in the other.

“Con.” He smiled. “Thought you were off camping this weekend.”

“Tonight. I’m getting some water and a few other things while Rob airs out the tent. Hey, I want you to take a look at something for me.”

Graham pushed his glasses up his nose. “Sure,” he said. “You scavenge up something good?”

“You know I’m not allowed to dive.”

“Sand in your hair says you do.”

Conner touched his hair, and sand rained down. He stared guiltily at the mess. “Sorry—”

“Forget it.” Graham shooed his apology like a fly. “Never gets all the way clean in here. So what’ve you got?”

“It’s this band here that Rob made.” Conner reached into his pocket and pulled out the band. He handed it to Graham. “The wires are ripped loose—”

Graham gave the band a cursory glance. He leaned over his workbench and studied the wires trailing over Conner’s belt, then looked down at his feet.

“Dad’s boots,” Conner explained.

“I see that. You got a suit on under there?”