1
The day had finally arrived, a day I’d been awaiting for ten years. A glorious day, a momentous day, a day of import and distinction.
It was time to buy a hot dog.
Someone was in line when we arrived, but I didn’t cut in front of her. She would have let me. I was one of the Reckoners—leaders of the rebellion, defenders of the city of Newcago, slayers of Steelheart himself. But standing in line was part of the experience, and I didn’t want to skip a moment.
Newcago extended around me, a city of skyscrapers, underpasses, shops, and streets all frozen permanently in steel. Recently, Tia had started an initiative to paint some of those surfaces. Now that the city’s perpetual gloom had been dispelled, it turned out all those reflective surfaces could make things
really
bright. With some work, instead of looking the same everywhere, the city would eventually become a patchwork of reds, oranges, greens, whites, and purples.
Abraham—my companion for this hot dog excursion—followed my gaze, then grimaced. “It would be nice if when we painted a wall, we would take a little more concern for colors that matched those of their neighbors.”
Tall and dark-skinned, Abraham spoke with a light French accent. As he talked, he scanned the people walking nearby, studying each one in his trademark relaxed yet discerning way. The butt of a handgun poked from his hip holster. We Reckoners weren’t
technically
police. I wasn’t sure what we were. But whatever it was, it involved weapons, and I had my rifle over my shoulder. Newcago was almost kind of peaceful, now that we’d dealt with the rioters, but you couldn’t count on peace lasting long. Not with Epics out there.
“We have to use the paint we can find,” I said.
“It’s garish.”
I shrugged. “I like it. The colors are different. Not like the city was before Calamity, but also a big change from how it was under Steelheart. They make the city look like a big … chessboard. Um, one painted a lot of colors.”
“Or perhaps a quilt?” Abraham asked, sounding amused.
“Sure, I suppose. If you want to use a boring metaphor.”
A quilt. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
The woman in front of us wandered off with her hot dog, and I stepped up to the stand—a small metal cart with a transformed steel umbrella permanently frozen open. The vendor, Sam, was an elderly, bearded man who wore a small red-and-white hat. He grinned at us. “For you, half price,” he said, whipping up two hot dogs. Chicago style, of course.
“Half price?” Abraham said. “Saving the world does not inspire the gratitude it once did.”
“A man has to make a living,” Sam said, slathering on the condiments. Like … a lot of them.
Yellow mustard, onions, chunked tomatoes, sweet pickle relish, peppers—whole, of course, and pickled—a dill pickle slice, and a pinch of celery salt. Just like I remembered. A true Chicago dog looks like someone fired a bazooka at a vegetable stand, then scraped the remnants off the wall and slathered it on a tube of meat.
I took mine greedily. Abraham was more skeptical.
“Ketchup?” Abraham asked.
The vendor’s eyes opened wide.
“He’s not from around here,” I said quickly. “No ketchup, Abraham. Aren’t you French? You people are supposed to have good taste in food.”
“French
Canadians
do have good taste in food,” Abraham said, inspecting the hot dog. “But I am not convinced that this is actually food.”
“Just try it.” I bit into my dog.
Bliss.
For a moment, it was as if no time had passed. I was back with my father, before everything went bad. I could hear him laughing, could smell the city as it had been back then—rank at times, yes, but also
alive
. Full of people talking and laughing and yelling. Asphalt streets, hot in the summer as we walked together. People in hockey jerseys. The Blackhawks had just won the Cup.… It faded around me, and I was back in Newcago, a steel city. But that moment of
The day had finally arrived, a day I’d been awaiting for ten years. A glorious day, a momentous day, a day of import and distinction.
It was time to buy a hot dog.
Someone was in line when we arrived, but I didn’t cut in front of her. She would have let me. I was one of the Reckoners—leaders of the rebellion, defenders of the city of Newcago, slayers of Steelheart himself. But standing in line was part of the experience, and I didn’t want to skip a moment.
Newcago extended around me, a city of skyscrapers, underpasses, shops, and streets all frozen permanently in steel. Recently, Tia had started an initiative to paint some of those surfaces. Now that the city’s perpetual gloom had been dispelled, it turned out all those reflective surfaces could make things
really
bright. With some work, instead of looking the same everywhere, the city would eventually become a patchwork of reds, oranges, greens, whites, and purples.
Abraham—my companion for this hot dog excursion—followed my gaze, then grimaced. “It would be nice if when we painted a wall, we would take a little more concern for colors that matched those of their neighbors.”
Tall and dark-skinned, Abraham spoke with a light French accent. As he talked, he scanned the people walking nearby, studying each one in his trademark relaxed yet discerning way. The butt of a handgun poked from his hip holster. We Reckoners weren’t
technically
police. I wasn’t sure what we were. But whatever it was, it involved weapons, and I had my rifle over my shoulder. Newcago was almost kind of peaceful, now that we’d dealt with the rioters, but you couldn’t count on peace lasting long. Not with Epics out there.
“We have to use the paint we can find,” I said.
“It’s garish.”
I shrugged. “I like it. The colors are different. Not like the city was before Calamity, but also a big change from how it was under Steelheart. They make the city look like a big … chessboard. Um, one painted a lot of colors.”
“Or perhaps a quilt?” Abraham asked, sounding amused.
“Sure, I suppose. If you want to use a boring metaphor.”
A quilt. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
The woman in front of us wandered off with her hot dog, and I stepped up to the stand—a small metal cart with a transformed steel umbrella permanently frozen open. The vendor, Sam, was an elderly, bearded man who wore a small red-and-white hat. He grinned at us. “For you, half price,” he said, whipping up two hot dogs. Chicago style, of course.
“Half price?” Abraham said. “Saving the world does not inspire the gratitude it once did.”
“A man has to make a living,” Sam said, slathering on the condiments. Like … a lot of them.
Yellow mustard, onions, chunked tomatoes, sweet pickle relish, peppers—whole, of course, and pickled—a dill pickle slice, and a pinch of celery salt. Just like I remembered. A true Chicago dog looks like someone fired a bazooka at a vegetable stand, then scraped the remnants off the wall and slathered it on a tube of meat.
I took mine greedily. Abraham was more skeptical.
“Ketchup?” Abraham asked.
The vendor’s eyes opened wide.
“He’s not from around here,” I said quickly. “No ketchup, Abraham. Aren’t you French? You people are supposed to have good taste in food.”
“French
Canadians
do have good taste in food,” Abraham said, inspecting the hot dog. “But I am not convinced that this is actually food.”
“Just try it.” I bit into my dog.
Bliss.
For a moment, it was as if no time had passed. I was back with my father, before everything went bad. I could hear him laughing, could smell the city as it had been back then—rank at times, yes, but also
alive
. Full of people talking and laughing and yelling. Asphalt streets, hot in the summer as we walked together. People in hockey jerseys. The Blackhawks had just won the Cup.… It faded around me, and I was back in Newcago, a steel city. But that moment of
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