A pregnant pause fills the phone’s speaker, making me think for a second that the call was disconnected. That is, until she asks, “Which market are you at?”
“Eden Mart off of Twenty-Third Street,” I tell her, leaning against the buggy I’d gotten.
“Good choice. Lucky for you, I’m on my way there to pick up a few things while on lunch, so if you’ll give me a minute, I’ll help you out,” she says joyfully. Lucky and coincidence.
“I don’t want to bother you. Maybe I should ask a worker so—”
“They won’t be able to help you. There’s a secret market underneath Eden Mart that most of the human workers don’t know about.”
My mind goes blank and runs with a million questions at the same time. Secret market? What the heck is going on?
“Like black market?” I whisper, glancing around me. Isla p
