It takes longer to return to Dead River than it did to get to Zuly’s tanker. In part, because I’m going steadily uphill, climbing out of the ocean ever so slowly, but also because Baby is a rotten pain. I have to stop constantly to feed the wailing beast, and what do I get? No thanks. No gratitude. No patience. I know she’s a baby, and this is to be expected, but gods, I’m glad she’s not my kid. I don’t know how new mothers put up with it.

Zuly left a ceramic pot tucked within Indie’s clothes, and that’s helped with the feedings some. So narrow it’s almost pitcher shaped, the pot is open on one end and has a spout on the side for Baby to drink from. I milk the goat into the pot, then have to hold it just so for Baby because she doesn’t seem capable of controlling how quickly she swallows. I used to watch Brooke burp Wren over her shoulder, but when I do the same thing with Baby, she spits up on me.

After the first feeding, the process gets a bit easier, but her wrappings are another issue. She soils them nearly as often as she needs to be fed, and I’m not about to waste water washing them. Zuly tucked some clean rags among Indie’s things, and I change Baby as needed, putting a fresh wrapping on and leaving the other behind.

By the time Dead River appears on the horizon, it’s well past sun-fall. Twilight hangs heavy, and only a faint glow lingers. Camp is quiet as I close in. I can’t make out our torches or even the bonfire, which should be easily recognizable by now, but the scent of smoke fills the night. Soon I can see it too. Great clouds billowing from the huts.

Did the bonfire spread embers in the storm last night? Was there not enough water to put out the flames?

I break into a jog, and Baby startles awake, crying into my chest.

“Not now,” I hiss, but she goes on wailing.

No one hears her. In any case, no one runs to greet me.

I step into camp and know instantly that this wasn’t an accident. The wind didn’t blow a stray ember. No one knocked over a torch. Every hut is smoking. Every last one.

I reach for my waist, tugging my knife from its leather sheath. One arm around Baby, the other holding out the blade, I edge forward.

Some of the huts are nothing but ash. Others, like the one I called home, still stand but are smoldering. I brush through the curtained door, coughing on smoke. “Ma?” I call. I pull up the driftwood on the floor and tramp into the cellar. “Marin?” Her real name feels clumsy on my tongue. “Ma?”