The rest of the afternoon is a frenzy of activity. Clearing the fields and putting out fires and seeing to pyres for the deceased. The smell of smoke lingers. The Loyalists took the worse losses, but Powder Town wasn’t without theirs. Harlie’s broken body is found on the wastes, an arrow in her chest. The Tender said that she likely died quickly, her neck snapping in the fall from the crow’s nest. She was found on her back, her face turned toward the sky.

I like to think that she was happy in those final moments before she fell. Her life’s creation worked, and it brought about the demise of a monster. I hope she knew this.

The dam is repaired in a haphazard manner, if only to keep the Barrel from flooding. The upper dam will be opened soon, in order to bring water to all citizens, but too much excess water entering the wastes could choke the narrow channel, taking out the homes and businesses that have grown roots there. The Prime has a plan for water distribution, or so she claims, but for now the focus is on caring for the injured and helping the General’s workers get clean from sleeping ilk. I’m there as carts with fresh water roll through the fields, and I can see disappointment glance their features. Already, they miss the drug.

I race through the roads, searching for my pack among the crowds and freezing when I find them. They’re all here—everyone but Vee, who is probably still stationed in the Barrel as a spy. They look haggard—thinner than when I left, darker from the sun, and on the verge of collapse. Pewter somehow appears both older and younger, her shoulders hunched from the burden of her labors but her eyes still wide and childish. I pull her into a hug. I don’t think I’ve ever cried in front of anyone in my pack, but I come undone. She’s here, in my arms. I made it back to them. We’re going to be okay.

“Something’s wrong with the water,” she tells me, seemingly oblivious to my tears.

I wipe them away. “It’s clean. Keep drinking. You’ll feel better in a few days.”

“I want the regular stuff,” she argues. “Why are you keeping it from us?”

“Pewter, please.”

“You’re not being loyal to the cause. You’re going to condemn us!” She grabs the ladle I’m trying to force on her and throws it across a row of crops, then shouts to the others. “Don’t drink what they give you. It’s bad! Spoiled!”

“It’s clean,” I insist. “What you’ve all been drinking is the bad stuff. Drugged.”