“I’m serious, Delta. Every trader knows the inverted well trick and has relied on it while trekking between the most remote settlements. It yields drinkable water that won’t make you sick. You’d do it too, if you were ever in a situation that required it.”

I glance at my goggles now. They’re not like Flint’s plas, but they’re clear and curved enough to guide the water true. Eons ago they might have blocked out the worst of the sun’s rays—at least that’s the rumor I’ve heard about Old World eyewear—but I squint plenty when I wear them. They only shield me from dust and rubble now.

Meaning this just might work.

It has to, or I’m dead.

I draw the thin curtains, hiding the inverted well from view, and collapse onto the mattress.

Chapter Eleven

I sleep like the dead but wake early.

First light filters through the sheer curtain, the pitcher a suspicious dark silhouette behind the material. I leap from the mattress and check the cup. Nothing’s collected yet, but the worst of the day’s heat is still a ways off.

In the hall, I find a new Loyalist guard on duty. When I ask him to see my family, he says he knows nothing about that. When I ask where Reed went, he says he’s unsure. When I ask him if there’s anything he actually does know, he ignores me.

I pace my room for the better part of the morning, rewarded with a sip from the cup around noon. The gathered water is no deeper than the height of my pinkie nail, but it is clean and odorless, and I gulp it down with confidence. I’ve only just dropped the curtain in place when Reed strides into the room carrying a plate of food, his ram-skull mask still pushed back on his forehead. I’m beginning to wonder if he ever actually wears it outside gunner patrol. I take a step away from him, my hip grazing the window ledge, not sure which I’m more afraid of: his presence or the possibility of him finding the inverted well.

“I’ve been told to take you to see your family,” he says dryly. I’m surprised I didn’t have to fight to see them, and it must read on my face, because he adds, “The General keeps his promises. All of them.” He says this last bit with a pointed look, and I know he’s talking about the threat against my mother. “Food first, before we go.” Reed holds out the plate of melon and a single fried egg. It smells divine, and I hate that my traitorous stomach growls at the sight of it. I doubt my pack is eating so well.

“I’ll eat while we walk,” I say, wanting to put distance between us and the pitcher on my window ledge.