I lurch away against the side railing. I can see on his wrist, in large block letters, the word POX.
Again Jacks steps between us and stares the man down. Without Jacks having to say a word, the man steps back and fades away into his cell.
Jacks takes my hand and leads me quickly past more cells. His aggression unsettles me, but when he looks back at me, I see he’s grinning. “Does it help if I don’t actually say the words ‘She’s mine’?”
“Sort of.” I offer him a small smile, but I don’t feel any better. “Does he have the Pox?” I ask. “Why is he out here with everyone?”
“He had it and recovered. Now he’s only contagious if he . . . well, exchanges bodily fluids with you. His tattoo lets everyone know so he doesn’t accidentally infect someone.”
I grimace as we reach Jacks’s cell, the door held closed with a bike lock. He pulls a key out of his pocket. “I know this seems like a total suck-fest, but it’ll be okay. One day at a time. And I have a feeling you’ll find this Ken guy soon.”
“Especially with your help,” I say.
Jacks undoes the bike lock and pulls open the cell door. “Home sweet home,” he says bleakly.
I walk into the dimly lit box. It’s tiny, crowded even with its sparse contents—a set of bunk beds, a single chair, and a small table strewn with notebooks and sketch paper. The walls are covered with artwork, life drawings, and vibrant tattoo ideas. In one corner a sheet hangs from the ceiling. Jacks pulls it aside, revealing a small metal toilet and sink.
“You can wash up,” he tells me, trying to place his art supplies into more organized piles. “There’s no electricity in this building, not like in the wall, but at least the plumbing works.” He hurries to the bunk beds and begins to clear papers off the top bunk.
“I’m okay for now,” I tell him, though the fact is, I could definitely make use of the toilet, and I know I could stand to clean up. Maybe I’ll get over my shyness later—I’d better—but for now, I’d rather wait until I’m alone in the cell.
There’s barely room to walk, the cell is so crowded. Not knowing what else to do, I study his artwork. It’s amazing—the colors in his intricate tattoo designs practically light the room, and the people he’s sketched look as if they could step down from the walls . . . Not a good thing in one case.
“You drew Tank?” I ask, pointing to a sketch near the tiny window. He studies it with a pained look, then shrugs and almost snarls, “I draw what’s around.”
“You captured his look perfectly.” Tank’s eyes stare back at me from the drawing, a predator after his prey. I shudder.
“Maybe we can take that one down for now?”
“Sure.” Jacks rips it from the wall and throws it on a stack of papers. “Sorry about the mess. I wasn’t expecting to get a roommate.”
“That’s okay.” I pick some more papers off the floor and put them on the table, trying to be of use. Shoved under the table are boxes of paints and paintbrushes.
“Where do you get all this?” I ask.
“From the Scrappers, in exchange for tattoo work,” he tells me, breaking down an easel from the middle of the room. Just putting that aside makes me feel like I have room to breathe.
I turn back to the table and shuffle through the drawings. Jacks must have sketched half of the people at Fort Black, each one of them so lifelike, I almost expect them to blink at me. I can’t stop looking at them. My eyes are drawn to maybe the hundredth sketch. The man’s face looks familiar. His features are delicate, almost pretty for a guy. Other than a heart-shaped mole on his left cheek, he seems like someone I should know. I pick up the drawing.
And then I realize why I recognize him. He looks familiar because he looks like Kay.
Chapter Thirteen
I twirl around. “Who is this?”
Jacks takes the sketch. “I’m not sure. . . . This is a pretty old drawing.”
“I think that’s Ken.”
“You think?” he asks, confused. “You mean you don’t know what Ken looks like?”
“No, his sister told me to find him, and this guy’s practically her twin.”
“Oh,” he says. “I thought this Ken guy was your man or something.”
I feel myself blush. “No, nothing like that.” I’ve only told him I want to find Ken—not why. And I’m not ready to do that yet. “My friend Kay thought he could help me with something.” I reach for the drawing and Jacks gives it back to me. “Maybe I can show this to people?”
“Well, you saw how eager everyone in this place is to help.”
“But I can try.”
Jacks leans against the bars and crosses his arms. “This really means a lot to you? Why?”
“It’s my sister. She’s—” I stop myself. I can’t let on about my connection to New Hope. “She’s in trouble and Ken can help.”
“You have a sister?” he asks, surprised. “Who is alive?”