“This is my best hideout,” Raif said. Cade smiled, acknowledging that the boy meant this as a gesture of trust. He looked Raif over again. The boy’s face was lost in shadow but somehow those dark eyes gave the impression of giving off light, a silver light.
“Why do you hate the Sharp Side?” Cade asked. “What makes you think I hate those punks?” Raif answered, but he couldn’t hide his surprise at Cade’s question.
“You want to help me, not just because you might get something out of me. You want to hurt the Sharp Side.” Cade squatted down; the boy mimicked his movement slowly. “Besides, you’re not stupid. People would have seen us together. If I hurt the Sharp Side they’ll know I talked to you. They’ll get to you.” Again Cade surprised himself. Why was he being so honest? Raif was quiet for a moment, digesting Cade’s words.
“You, do you know Downwind?” Raif asked, playing with his knife.
“I grew up here.”
Raif nodded his head. “You have the look.” The boy shifted uncom- fortably. “You can tell, the ones who don’t know, but those who’ve been here, lived here, it marks you. Can’t ever hide it.” Cade just waited.
“Born here,” Raif grunted, looking past Cade’s shoulder. “Father’s a drunk, mother’s a drunk. They sold my sister to a caravan last year. Father hits mother, raped my sister. Mom will do anything for another drink. Sometimes works at Mama Becho’s. But my brother . . .” Raif said no more.
Cade understood. His family, destroyed by Downwind. He was an independent in more ways than one. He wasn’t beat yet. And . . .”