The only structure the raiders didn’t bother to set ablaze is the now-empty stable. They’ve taken my pack and our livestock. I know I need to move. I won’t last more than a handful of days here on my own, but I can’t travel at night. Even with the lodestone directing me, I wouldn’t be able to see the ground beneath my feet. The moon is currently weak, and a torch will only alert raiders of my presence. They’re out there somewhere—the party that attacked Dead River. All serving some man known as the General.

I’ll have to salvage what I can and move in the morning, follow the river to Powder Town. I can leave Baby with someone there and set out after Ma and the others. Try to find where they’ve been taken.

If only we’d moved to Powder Town in the winter, none of this would have happened. According to Flint, they have defenses there. He’s never heard of a raiding party coming within even a stone’s throw of the place.

I sleep in one of the stable’s empty stalls with Baby—or I try to. She wakes constantly, wailing and crying for milk. Each time I have to milk the goat, fill the feeding pot, hold it while Baby guzzles.

She’s a damn drain, a nuisance, a leech.

I hate her.

I hate that she lived while Indie died.

I hate that I had to trek to the Ark instead of being here with my pack. If I were here, maybe it would have turned out differently.

You’d be dead, like Astra, for fighting back, or you’d be in chains alongside the others, wherever they are now.

I know it’s true, but logic doesn’t make the pain or guilt lessen.

Come first light, I gather what I can save from the huts. Any fresh food’s been ruined, but there’s a decent number of jarred dry goods I can take. Of course, those are heavy, so I only put five into my pack. One salt, two flour, and two baking soda. Astra’s home yields a metal box she must have picked up from a trader. Inside is a piece of flint rock and Old World steel, along with an Old World knife. The handle is perfectly contoured to the shape of my palm, complete with grooves for each finger, but it’s not made of wood or bone. The strange material is an unnatural color—bright orange, like a hot flame. There’s a small sheath with it, and I add it to my belt. I can carry the Old World knife on one hip and my trusty bone blade and wood-handle knife on the other. I snap the tin shut and pocket that too.