When Harlie and I don’t need Asher’s help on the wagon, he works on curing meat for the upcoming trip. Reed’s steed won’t make the journey across the wastes, and much like with his falcon, it makes no sense to send the horse trotting for Powder Town. Reed theorizes that the horse will break west as soon as it’s free, travel back to Bedrock. If it shows up without a rider, Loyalists will be sent looking for him. Plus, our wagon needs to be loaded with rations.

“I’ll put it down,” I’d offered, remembering how Asher couldn’t stand killing game as a kid.

“Nah, you focus with Harlie,” Asher said. A bit later, he came back from the side of the outcropping where he’d butchered the steed, blood covering his front, giant flanks of meat loaded on a dragger to be smoked. His mouth was thin. His voice didn’t waver when he said it was done.

Maybe it will be different in the Verdant, but out here, the wastes harden everyone in time. Even boys who pick scrub flowers for their mas.

On our third morning in Harlie’s Hope, Harlie says it’s time to test the newly installed brakes.

We all scramble into the wagon, which faces north. Reed sits near the stern, arms still bound, and Harlie barks out instructions for me and Asher to raise sails and tighten rigging. There’s a tailwind, as there’s been every day since we arrived—it seems to blow in from the southwest without fail—and the sails quickly snap tight, cupped with air. The wheels lurch beneath us, creaking as they get going. Harlie leans on the tiller, aligning us with the wind, toward barren desert.

The wheels keep turning, slowly, then faster, and soon we’re bumping across the plain at the clip of a galloping horse. I squint, marveling at the speed, then laugh and throw my arms out. My scarf flutters at the nape of my neck. This must be what it feels like to fly.

“Here goes nothing!” Harlie calls from the tiller. Her white hair whips behind her like a current. She looks back to where I stand near the brake, her eyes flashing behind her goggles. “Grab on to something and pull, girl. Let’s see if she stops as well as she sails.”

I yank on the lever. Beneath the deck, the wheels cry in protest, squeaking and grinding against the weight of the brake. Immediately, we start to slow, and my palms burn hot. I’ll need to wear gloves next time.

“See to the sails!” Harlie shouts to Asher. “Drop them fast.” She leans into the tiller, angling us back the way we came as he works the rigging.