The thought of retreating into the bunker and facing Asher is unbearable, but I don’t want to be here with Harlie, either. I just want to be alone.

I climb down the rock pile, ignoring her as she grumbles, “That’s it, girl. Keep on running.” I head straight for the wind wagon, which fared well in the storm and still stands proud. I pull up the slat of wood to access the storage space belowdecks. Sand slides and billows from the plank. And there it is, untouched by the bad weather: Harlie’s moonblitz. I grab a jar and gulp from it like I’m dying of thirst, blitz dribbling down my chin. The liquid burns my tongue and scorches the back of my throat. My belly hums with heat.

I collapse on the bleached wood and take another slug from the jar, a third. I drink until I can no longer feel the burn, then lie down on the rubble-strewn deck and let the sun bake my face.

If there were vultures this deep in the desert, they’d be circling overhead, waiting for me to die.

I wake shivering, my head throbbing. I think I might be sick.

I sit carefully, using the starlit deck of the wind wagon to push myself upright. To the east, I can see the horizon if I squint, the earth a deep purple blanket where it meets the pure black spread of the sky. I’m overwhelmed by the size of it, how it dwarfs me. I wonder if this was what it felt like to be at sea on a ship all those years ago, before the people that deserted us stripped the land of its resources.

The Federation, Amory called it.

I glance up at Feder in the sky, a god he invented, then Ation, another lie. Feder and Ation. Federation.

Ay-tee-on, we’ve been saying, not Ay-shun. I wonder if Amory changed the pronunciation when he dreamed up our gods, or if it changed over time. Like so much of the Old World, the answer is lost.

I wonder if they’re out there still among the stars—the people who deserted us. I wonder where their rigid-winged bird took them, how it took them. I wonder, I wonder, I wonder. I’ve uncovered so much and still know so little.

I stand up shakily, stomach twisting. I am most definitely going to be sick. I run for the rail and heave, but nothing comes up.

Rusted moonblitz. It’s the devil’s drink. Serves no purpose whatsoever beyond churning a person’s stomach into knots and rotting their brain. Even still, I find myself searching the deck for the jar. Folks say that more of the drink is the best way to banish a fogged head. Makes no sense, really, but I’m ready to try it. Anything to make my skull stop pounding.