As twilight falls, my destination morphs into the behemoth rig Flint described. I’ve never seen something so large. The stilts are rusted and reddened from the elements, and slightly crooked too, as though the wind has tried to blow them over. Rungs are built into each of the stilts, turning them into ladders. They extend up to the hutlike portion of the rig, which is four times as large as our huts back home and encircled by a deck with a railing. It towers above me like an impossible island.

A figure appears on the deck, the unmistakable shape of a rifle aimed my way. I freeze, and the dragger slides to a halt.

“Name and business?” the figure calls down.

“I’m Delta of Dead River. My sister is sick. Pregnant, but something’s gone wrong. I need to see Zuly.”

His rifle lowers slightly, and if I squint, I can make out a weathered face, dark and wrinkled. “Patients outside of Zuly’s pack aren’t allowed on the Ark. If you need meds, you should have sent a trader.”

“She’s seen one of ours before. Years ago, when we still called Alkali Lake home. My friend Asher was sick with an endless fever. His ma brought him, and Zuly treated him.”

“You must’ve had good payment.”

I don’t know what Silla paid Zuly that day, but I nod anyway. “I have payment again now. Please. My sister is dying.”

It’s only when I speak the words that I realize they’re true. If Indie was fine, Astra would have delivered the baby at home. Ma never would have sent me into the wastes.

“The tanker is a half click that way,” the watchman says, pointing southeast. “You better be quick. The skies paint warnings.”

I glance over my shoulder. The northern sky is alight with ribbons of green and white, dancing and twining above the darkening horizon.

A silent storm is coming.

I curse, remembering the flare yesterday as I helped Indie in the cornfields. We had to take shelter among the stalks for a few minutes, shielding our eyes until the brightness passed. Was that really only a day ago? It feels like a lifetime. Doesn’t matter. Flares always come before the auroras, and the auroras always come before the silent storms. The gods may send them to punish us, but at least they warn us, too.

I touch the lodestone beneath my shirt. I’ll be able to find my way, but I worry about Indie. Some silent storms merely disrupt Old World compasses and stir up more dust. Others are so strong, you can feel your heart racing, your blood boiling. They’ve killed the elderly on rare occasions, caused their hearts to stop cold. And in Indie’s weakened state . . .

Silent storms. Silent killers.