I glance at Asher. He looks as shocked as I feel. “Where’s the Verdant?” he asks.

“Here,” I murmur, turning in circles. “It was supposed to be here.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

We split up to search more thoroughly. Maybe this isn’t the Verdant, just a place on the way to it. Maybe there’s a map somewhere.

After Harlie and I search the massive sleeping room to no avail, she mentions needing a rest. I head to the first room alone—the one with the dark, dusty windows and strange tabletops. I can hear Asher and Reed across the hall, rummaging through gear in the storeroom, but I’m starting to fear that we might not find anything.

Don’t think it, not even for a second, I snap at myself. There has to be a map somewhere.

There has to, because if it’s not, we’re all dead.

We have maybe three days of water left, if we really try to stretch it. Our limited supplies weren’t going to be an issue because this was supposed to be the Verdant.

I collapse at one of the tables, exhausted. The seat is the softest thing I have ever sat in, plush, contoured to hold me. I nearly moan. If I’m going to die stranded here, at least I have this chair.

I hang my head forward, eyelids heavy. I’m thinking of Bay in the General’s nursery, and the rest of my pack, and how I’ve failed them all, when I suddenly doze off. My head lurches forward, hits the table. I shoot upright, rubbing my brow, and freeze.

The black window above the table now has white Old World symbols on it. I brush dust from the frame with my palm and stare at the strange shapes.

Code Red Protocol Enacted 127,385 days ago.

Touch any key to play back recorded logs.

I don’t have a clue what any of it means. I’m not even sure why it appeared. Maybe when my head hit the strange toggle on the table. I reach out and touch the one closest to me—a long, narrow one without markings.

The window flashes, and the symbols are gone, replaced with a view of exactly where I’m sitting, yet it’s not me in the chair, but a man with dark skin and haunted eyes. I yelp and jump to my feet. Twist around. It’s just me in the room.

I turn back toward the window, and he’s still there, rubbing the thick beard that covers his jaw. “I’m not really sure where to start,” he says, “so I’m just gonna come out with it: I’m stranded here.”

I must be dehydrated, on the verge of sun sickness. I grab my waterskin from my side, guzzle some down, splash a bit more on my face.