“If you know what’s good for you,” he goes on, “you’ll keep your mouth closed and not fight us. I swear to the gods . . .” His mouth curls into a snarl, and I don’t recognize him in the slightest. Not even his eyes. Whatever happened to him at Alkali Lake, whatever happened to him after . . . It’s changed him. The Asher I knew is dead, and I can’t trust the ghost walking in his place.

Several hours later, not even the rocking of the wagon can keep Baby asleep. She wakes with a vengeance, howling to be fed.

“She needs to eat,” I announce. “And I should change her wrappings, too.”

The wagon doesn’t slow.

“She’ll just go on crying until she’s fed. All night, even.”

“Bain, the baby needs to eat,” Asher says eventually. “Let’s stop.”

The bulkier of the two, Bain, grunts. “What’s the point in stopping? Just keep your rifle on them both. I don’t trust the girl.”

My hands are bound together in my lap, but not completely useless. Asher glances at the sling for Baby, my leather jacket and wool shirt, the bulk that implies layers.

“Can you get them off without help?” he asks.

I suddenly realize what they’ve all assumed. “I can’t feed her. She’s not mine. I need the goat’s milk and the feeding pot packed with my gear.”

Bain says, “We’re not stopping.”

“Gotta make good time,” the other adds.

Baby howls louder. Her nose is pink with cold. The wastes cool off fast without the sun, and even the warmth of my body and the sling doesn’t seem to be enough anymore. It’s a miracle any newborn lives. Fragile, weak things.

I rock her lightly, trying to distract her from the hunger pangs. It only makes her cry harder.

“We can spare a few minutes,” Asher argues to his friends. “Besides, the baby’s not worth anything if it’s dead, and weaklings don’t draw the same bids.”

That does the trick. Bain and his buddy straighten at the yoke, and the wagon halts. “Find the feeding pot and milk the goat,” Bain says to Asher. “And do it fast. I don’t like sitting still in the open.” Then he stalks off, muttering about taking a piss. His friend follows.

As soon as the guys are gone, I lunge for the cage, grabbing the driftwood bars. “Let me go, Asher. I can run.”

“To where?” He grunts from where he’s stooped to milk the goat. “There’s nothing for dozens of clicks, and they’d murder me for setting you loose.”

“Then come with me. Or I can knock you good with that rifle, make it look convincing—like I got a jump on you.”

“They’d just catch us again. And if you go alone, you’ll end up lost and dead of thirst.”