I go to task alongside her, the sun beating down on our shoulders. It isn’t hard work, exactly. The sulfur is lightweight and brittle, and it doesn’t take much effort to break it free. It’s the hunching over at an awkward angle that wears on me. I have a stiff neck and an aching lower back in no time. The work reminds me of harvesting at Alkali Lake as a kid and also of that day in the General’s field, weeding alongside my ilked-up pack. Their fogged eyes, the threat the General holds against them . . .

I wonder briefly if I’ve made a mistake. Harvesting sulfur isn’t going to save them.

Members of the Reaper’s security team stand watch along the boardwalk. Cleo assures me that there’s nothing to fear; sulfur is typically harvested without any sort of protection. The Prime simply insisted on a few days of added security after the Loyalist army made a surprise appearance.

If I look east, across my pool and to the next, I can see Asher tucking sulfur into his jar. If he glanced up, he’d see me staring, but he’s too busy chatting with Saph as he harvests. She’s standing on the boardwalk to his right, a rifle griped across her chest. He keeps smiling at whatever she’s saying. It’s a familiar smile, crooked and all-knowing, as if he’s in on a joke just the two of them know. I thought that smile was something Asher gave only to me, but of course not. The truth is, I barely know him anymore, especially not the person he is now.

“You two have a lot of history?” Cleo asks, and I realize she’s caught me staring. Saph must have told her what I said to the Prime yesterday—how Asher wouldn’t run now that he’d found me.

“We grew up together, that’s all. I barely know him anymore.” I tuck a piece of sulfur into my jar and use my forearm to wipe sweat from my brow. Cleo looks unconvinced.

Asher is standing now, arms stretched overhead. He tilts his head to the side, transferring weight from one leg to the other, stretching his hips. I’ve only seen him close-up since he reappeared in my life, and as he loosens stiff muscles, I can’t help but take in how much he’s changed. The narrow of his waist, the span of his shoulders . . .

He catches me watching and flashes that crooked smile. Something pinches in my stomach, and I drop my head, embarrassed. That my eyes wandered? That he caught me staring? That I’ve missed him all these years, even when the person he is now is a stranger?