No, idiot, he chided himself again. He’d never once seen her—even though it had been only a day or so—never seen her let the boy out of her sight. He walked back to Dante, picked him up, hefted him in his arms until it felt comfortable.

“Don’t worry, mate,” he said. “We’re gonna find your mom.”

He allowed himself five seconds to consider in which direction he should go. Toward the Central Zone? Toward the gate that exited the Crank Palace? The latter, he thought. If for no other reason than it was closer and it’d be a good place to start canvassing his way back through the rings of huts and hovels and tents.

“Come on, kid. Let’s go.”

* * *

The anxiety cinching up his insides with each and every step proved to be almost unbearable. The maddening uncertainty of it was enough to make his heart strain for every single beat. He had to know where she was, what had happened, an outcome, any outcome. He almost dropped Dante with the anguish that consumed him. What in the bloody hell was he going to do if he didn’t find her?

But then, there she was.

It was a sight that did a strange thing. In the same moment, he felt an overwhelming relief even while his hopes for the future sunk to the depths of the Earth.

Keisha was fine, at least physically. Keisha was alone.

She walked along, her back to him, slowly and with a lurch in each step, about 200 yards or so from the gate in the huge wooden wall. She had Newt’s backpack strapped to her shoulders, her own pack slung in the crook of her left elbow, and with her right hand she dragged along a canvas bag full of what, he didn’t know. It had been easy to catch up with her because she moved at a snail’s pace, taking a strange little pause to pull on the canvas bag between every two steps, as if the stuff in there weighed more than she did.

“Keisha!” he yelled. She either didn’t hear him or pretended not to. He quickened his gait to a run. “Keisha! Stop!” She didn’t.

Newt caught up with her, went past her, until he was directly in her path and stood there, facing back, feet planted, holding Dante in front of him like an omen to shame her for the outrageous decision she’d made to leave. She saw them and stopped, although the expression on her face didn’t change—she looked exhausted and weary, void of emotion, sweat soaking her hair and skin.

“Keisha,” Newt said, trying to dampen the sudden anger he felt. “What on Earth?”

She dropped the end of the canvas sack she’d been dragging. Then she let the pack hitched in her elbow slide down her forearm and into the dirt with a puff of dust. Finally, with an air of defeat, she slipped Newt’s backpack off each shoulder and let it slump to the ground. Newt heard the clank of his Launcher, and had the intense hope that his journal was safely inside. She stood there, hunched over a bit, catching her breath.