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Chapters (61)
  1. Copyright
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. Map of The Wastes
  5. I
  6. Chapter One
  7. Chapter Two
  8. Chapter Three
  9. Chapter Four
  10. Chapter Five
  11. Chapter Six
  12. Chapter Seven
  13. Chapter Eight
  14. II
  15. Chapter Nine
  16. Chapter Ten
  17. Chapter Eleven
  18. Chapter Twelve
  19. Chapter Thirteen
  20. Chapter Fourteen
  21. Chapter Fifteen
  22. Chapter Sixteen
  23. Chapter Seventeen
  24. Chapter Eighteen
  25. Chapter Nineteen
  26. Chapter Twenty
  27. III
  28. Chapter Twenty-One
  29. Chapter Twenty-Two
  30. Chapter Twenty-Three
  31. Chapter Twenty-Four
  32. Chapter Twenty-Five
  33. Chapter Twenty-Six
  34. Chapter Twenty-Seven
  35. Chapter Twenty-Eight
  36. Chapter Twenty-Nine
  37. Chapter Thirty
  38. Chapter Thirty-One
  39. IV
  40. Chapter Thirty-Two
  41. Chapter Thirty-Three
  42. Chapter Thirty-Four
  43. Chapter Thirty-Five
  44. Chapter Thirty-Six
  45. Chapter Thirty-Seven
  46. Chapter Thirty-Eight
  47. Chapter Thirty-Nine
  48. Chapter Forty
  49. V
  50. Chapter Forty-One
  51. Chapter Forty-Two
  52. Chapter Forty-Three
  53. Chapter Forty-Four
  54. Chapter Forty-Five
  55. Acknowledgments
  56. Sample Chapter from ALL THESE MONSTERS
  57. 1
  58. Buy the Book
  59. Must-Read Sci-Fi and Fantasy Books
  60. About the Author
  61. Connect with HMH on Social Media

When I reach the last hut of our camp, I can’t help it—I pause and look over my shoulder. The whole pack’s watching. They’ll wait eagerly for our return, and as they do, they’ll miss Indie most. I might build tools and extend docks and design traps, but I don’t make people laugh the way Indie does. I can’t tell a good story or distract from the drought or light up a hut when I enter.

I raise a hand in farewell.

Old Fang mirrors the gesture.

The rest of them follow suit.

Even Vee, nearing Old Fang’s age and typically too stoic to get sentimental. The only person who doesn’t wave is Ma. She clutches both hands to her chest, eyes pained as she watches us—the only blood she has left in the world—venture into the wastes.

There’s nothing this way but dirt and sand and the dry beds of Dead River. I’ve never been far beyond camp except to check traps for jackrabbits and quail, but I know if I follow the river south, it will eventually open onto the parched ocean bed. If I carry on from there, I’ll run into Zuly.

Flint told me the way once, with precise directions. I had to give him some moonblitz to even get him talking, but I trust his word more than Clay’s. Not every trader is reliable.

If Indie were with it enough to talk, she’d say that’s because I rolled with Flint once over the winter and now I have a bias. I wonder if that’s what makes her oblivious to Clay’s faults, if sharing something so intimate makes you drop your guard, grow blind to the things that matter. I hope not. I can’t have Flint’s directions steer me wrong.

By midday, I’m tiring. The dragger strap has managed to rub me raw near my neck, even with the collar of my leather jacket protecting my skin. My muscles are racked with exhaustion, my lips cracked. I’ve sweated through most of my clothes, but I know better than to take off layers. It would only be a brief escape from the heat, and if I stripped enough to give my skin a chance to breathe, I’d be sunburned within an hour. Besides, old habits don’t die. The more layers, the better. The more hidden my back, the safer.