During that last day under the dying trees, they had sat in small groups and no one spoke. Some stretched out on the ground and tried to sleep. Others prowled around; making sure everything useful was packed. Some held knives and machetes and slid their fingers along the blades, honing them on stones if they were not sharp enough. Some walked back and forth to the river, drinking, stripping, lying in the deepest parts. They came back muddy.

Sorrel sat against the trunk of one of the largest trees and wished she knew its name. Its trunk was patterned like an animal’s skin; its bark flaked off easily and oozed an orange sap, which they had sometimes used as glue. It dried hard as metal. The tree’s leaves were dark green and tiny. Strange dried growths grew on the highest branches. She knew nothing about the tree – not its name, not its uses, not where it came from, or if it belonged in the hills.

She thought about Emrallie’s words: I don’t think about humanity. She suddenly understood Emrallie’s rejection of the old people and their old ways.

But we’re the same, she thought. Once the band had stopped moving and arrived at Jiba, we started wanting, gathering and keeping more. Any kind of thin, dirty bedding had been luxurious when we first arrived at camp. I saw others with more and wanted more for myself. If we’d been able to stay here, we would’ve used it all up, too.

The morning before they left, they heard a rumbling noise and the earth shook. The trees rustled and all the girls who were standing dropped to their hands and knees. They were used to earthquakes, but this one seemed to go on for a long time. The land rocked like the ocean, all crest and trough. Sorrel was hot under all the things tied to her and her hair was wet under her hat. She suddenly wanted her hair to be gone. This part of her life was over.

The earthquake stopped and she took out the old razor, which had been charged along with everything that could be charged. She had kept it because it reminded her of Bibi, and the day they had shaved each other’s bodies. She took off her hat and began to shave her head.

The others watched as her hair fell in long curls. When she had finished, they came over, one by one, and took the razor. They formed a line, and the Tribals shaved their heads until the razor ran out of charge. The pile of hair grew. Rashelope pulled a cloth bag from her backpack and stuffed it full. No one asked her why.

“I’ll put the razor back on charge. It’ll only take a couple hours,” Sorrel said to her.

“I’ll keep my hair,” Rashelope said.