The woman leaps aside, but the wooden beam clips the back of her head, and she collapses onto the deck. Asher runs to her. I keep squeezing the brake, the wagon slowing to a crawl as one of the sails, now free of the rigging that attached it to the crossbeam, snaps and flails overhead.

“Get water and whatever meat you can carry,” I tell Reed as the wagon sags to a stop. “We’re gonna have to run for it.”

Above us, dust crests the rock outcropping. Rubble stings my cheeks.

We’ve stopped a mere stone’s throw from the rocks, which might spare the wagon from damage. I grab supplies, then vault over the side rail and sprint. Reed follows. Ahead, Asher is half carrying, half dragging an unconscious Harlie to safety. They slip into the shanty. Just as I reach the door, I risk a glance left, out across the open plains. The Loyalists’ steeds are galloping like mad. They’re so close I can see their eyes—all but the man in the lead, who wears a ram-skull mask. One of the General’s Four.

Unlike the others, he’s not looking at the storm breaking over the rocks, about to bury them alive. He’s looking over my shoulder. At Reed.

Reed, who is not bound or beaten.

Reed, who is carrying supplies, obviously helping me.

Reed, who has betrayed his pledge, turned his back on the General.

“Death to the disloyal!” the man shouts, training his weapon on Reed.

We rush into Harlie’s place, and Asher shoves a piece of scrap metal over the doorway. I never hear a gunshot. The storm hits with the roar of a monster, and the world becomes nothing but darkness and wind.

The storm rages through the night, and by morning, a decent amount of dust has infiltrated the shanty, piling in small swells around the base of the secured curtained doorway.

Harlie is conscious again, but also violently ill. She throws up whatever food we give her and complains about pressure that feels like a fist behind her skull. She keeps asking if she’ll be okay, and I can’t bear to lie. Head injuries are dangerous. Back at Alkali Lake, one of our pack died from a mule kick to the head. “Time will tell” is all I’m comfortable saying.

When the storm clears, the first sound to grace our ears is the screech of a falcon. I run outside to see the Loyalist’s bird streaking east. It must have found shelter among the rocks.

I yell for Asher—his slingshot—but it’s Reed who emerges from the shanty first. He whistles, calling the bird to him. It lands on his outstretched fist. “Ember,” he says, stroking the creature’s slick wings. Then to me: “Do we still have meat? She’ll work with me quickly if I spoil her.”

“We’re keeping her?”