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would not be so much…” He searches for the word, knocking away the boot of a soldier who’s in our way. “Clutter.”
    The soldier Kozlov kicked quickly pulls his legs in, reminding me of a dying spider. As he wraps his arms around his knees, making himself small against the wall, I notice he’s missing his right arm up to the elbow. A chunk of him, just gone. I know a little about what that’s like. In fact, now that I think about it, most of the Russians who arrived after Juneau are crippled or disfigured in some way. Veterans of a war most of them never signed up for.
    That’s when it hits me. This has nothing to do with
conditions.
Kozlov’s unloading his “undesirables” on McKinley, and using their discomfort to bargain for better people. No—better
soldiers.
    Exchange, indeed. Bastard.
    “I’ll take it into consideration.” The hell I will.
    Kozlov changes the subject, not wanting to appear too eager, and I focus on where I’m walking, instead of how much I want to punch him in the face.
    While he talks about food-shortage concerns, I carefully navigate the space between one soldier’s splayed legs like a delicate game of hopscotch. I don’t want to wake her if she’s sleeping. With her eyes closed in the shadow of a small cap, it’s difficult to tell one way or another.
    As I pass by her, I feel a hand on my leg.
    The contact is brief, gentle, but jarring. I glance back. The young woman’s face is clenched in a smile, the whites of her eyes brownish and watery, and she’s staring right at me.
    Not creepy at all…
    After another moment, she tucks her chin down, and huddles back into a beat-up NUSSR military jacket that would fit a person twice her size. Where her skinny neck protrudes from a popped collar, the skin is jaundiced, reminding me of an old bruise. Maybe her liver’s not working properly, or she’s anemic and not getting enough red meat. There are still plenty of ways to die that don’t involve the machines.
    I want to stop, ask the soldier how she’s doing, maybe send her in for a checkup. But if I stop for her, I’ll end up stopping for everyone.
    Still, as my steps shorten, my burly German bodyguard nudges me from behind. When I frown at him, he lifts his chin.
    Ulrich’s message is clear: keep walking.
    At least one of us is keeping my hectic schedule in mind. I’m expected to meet with the North Korean delegation an hour from now, then join some of our Chinese allies for lunch. My head pounds. I’ve already been awake for almost twenty-four hours, trying to juggle everything I need to cement this pact. Camus says I need to learn how to delegate. But he also told me I’d enjoy
Middlemarch
if I just stuck with it, so what does he know, really?
    I try to forget the odd moment with the Russian soldier, but it’s not the first time strangers have tried to touch me, and it happens again periodically as we progress through the medical level. I feel hands on my pants, at the hem of my shirt, and one man even tries to pet me on the head. It’s like none of them have heard of personal boundaries.
    Finally, Kozlov shakes his head with a smirk. “They believe you offer good luck.”
    “What?”
    “Why they touch you.” I didn’t think he’d been paying attention, too occupied with complaining about Medical’s restrooms. Maybe it was just me not paying attention to him. “They believe you are lucky. That you cannot be killed.”
    If they only knew the half of it.
A bloodstain outside Anchorage would correct that belief real quick.
    I dodge another hand heading for my sleeve, but then feel bad and offer a handshake instead. “So, what? I’m some kind of rabbit’s foot?”
    Kozlov wrinkles his forehead. “Rabbit…foot? No—
lucky.
” He says it loudly, as if I’m merely mishearing him. His throat struggles with the vowels, like he’s gargling spit. “Is that not right?” he asks one of his translators, who confirms it is, in fact, the right word.
    I try not to