I grinned at him. “The French built New Orleans; duct tape rebuilt it.”

“That’s it,” he said, nodding. “Looks like also some oatmeal, dried potatoes. Oh, and a treat.”

My eyes lit up. “A treat?”

He handed me the clipboard, climbed into the truck. I signed my name on the line at the bottom, promising to pay Containment for the goods within thirty days.

A minute later, he emerged with a small foam cooler.

That meant something cold. And that meant something perishable.

I squealed when I exchanged the clipboard for the cooler. It was heavy. Cold, perishable, heavy. These were good signs.

“Give me one more box,” I said. “I can carry two, and I want to get this inside.”

Trey set another box on top of the first, grabbed his own, and followed me into the store. I put them both on a library table near the door, slipped the tape on the foam with a fingernail. I lifted the lid, felt the cool rush of ice.

“What is it?” Trey asked, almost reverentially. Containment, being military and feds, had access to plenty of food and supplies. But treats were rare—and that much more awesome.

I pulled out the frozen gel pack, felt around for the contents, and grinned. I pulled out eight boxes of unsalted butter.

“It’s a War Night miracle,” I said, nearly tearing up with excitement.

“Damn,” Trey said. “I haven’t seen that much butter in a long time.”

A memory tickled, of my father baking cookies in our small kitchen for some holiday or other. There were mounds of pale yellow butter in a wide crockery bowl, and he was stirring it with a wooden spoon. If we had butter, life was almost normal. And these days, almost normal was pretty exceptional.

In the silence that had fallen across the store, I put the butter back in the box, stuffed in the gel packs.

“More reliable than the fridge,” Trey said quietly.

“Sad, but true.” I glanced at him, took in the dark skin, round face, brow now furrowed with regret. Trey was in his forties, so he’d seen even more of prewar life than I had. He’d had more to lose.

“I can put aside a stick or two for you if you want to grab it when you get off shift.”

Something crossed his face, like he was trying to shake off the melancholy, and he smiled a little. “Too rich for my blood. The taste,” he clarified before I could make him a better offer. “Don’t want to get used to something like that these days. I nearly prefer not to have it than for it to be taken away.”

“I can respect that.”

“Better get the rest of the boxes,” he said. “Still a few deliveries to go.”

We left the cooler on the table, walked back into the heat.

“Heard there was a wraith attack last night,” Trey said, stepping into the truck again and handing me a box.

It didn’t look like I’d be able to avoid the wraiths. “Yep. Right down the street. Two of them.”

“They get away?”

“As far as I’m aware. They were trying to attack a girl. I understand she got away, too.”

“Good. Good for her. Quite a damn thing, ain’t it? New Orleans thinks it’s well and done with monsters and magic, and they just keep popping back up.”

“Indeed they do.”

“So,” he said as we moved another load into the building, “did you hear about old man Lipscomb? Got into it last week in the middle of the street with Hoyt Bauer—accused him of stealing his woman.”

I smiled. “I did not. Tell me all about it.”

•   •   •

That story, as it turned out, was a good and sordid one, with plenty of deception, passion, betrayal. New Orleans gave good gossip.