“Who are you?” he asked in a shaken voice.
“Are you ok? Can you walk?” Zark asked him, seeing his leg with an open gash.
The kid got up to his feet. His clothes were torn and his face was bloodied.
“Yeah, I think.”
They had only been on Zarmina for about an hour, but it was plain to see that this young man was not dressed the same as the thugs that lay defeated behind them. He wore garments of rough linens. The clothes, barely passable above rags, were a single color, as opposed to the colorful, light clothing Zedd and Zark had been seeing all day.
“Maybe you should come with us to the tram station,” Zedd suggested. “We can get you some help.”
“No!” the boy shouted. “No, please. You can’t let anyone know you saw me. Please.” He was begging.
“Hey we just want to help you. What’s your name?” Zedd asked.
The kid looked at him, scared. Through obvious pain, he slowly backed away from them both, further into the alley.
Zark held out his hand to him. “Just come with us. We’ll help you out.”
The kid turned and stumbled off into the darkness, limping on his right leg.
“Grateful little bastard,” Zedd commented. “We should get out of here.”
Zark gladly agreed. They broke into a jog. As they moved, more people seeped from deep crevasses between the buildings watching the strangers. Zedd and Zark paid no attention to the onlookers as they picked up the pace. Out of the gloom, a light post illuminated a tall staircase that climbed back to the overhead bridge. Zark reached it first, taking the stairs up three at a time.