Only the lead wagon is marked in any way—a pale flag with the symbol of some type of instrument stitched onto its face. A hammer perhaps, or a pick. The flag flaps too much for me to be sure.

Loyalists meet the convoy just before the Backbone, and the wagons roll beneath the lowest canopies, disappearing from view.

A shadow falls over me. “Weed,” the guard barks.

I’m too parched to argue, and after standing upright for so long, dropping to all fours is a relief. I return to my work, considering how a soul can end up broken, with or without drugged water.

I’m in a bad place by late afternoon. My vision swims, and even moving my basket of weeds leaves me winded. I should have had some of the water, maybe just a sip. I can’t help my pack if I’m dead, and that’s where I’m driving myself.

I glance up, praying to find the water wagon nearby. Instead I see a familiar face on the dirt road.

I squint, certain the heat is playing tricks on me, but the figure remains unchanged. Dark hair and broad shoulders and a slight limp in his step from a broken ankle that never healed right. Flint. I blink several times. It’s him. The problem is he’s wearing the Loyalist garb—black from head to toe. He’s even carrying a rifle. In all the years I’ve known him, he’s rolled into Dead River to trade with nothing but a pair of Old World knives and a slingshot.

I bolt to my feet and am running before the shock of such movement registers with my body. I nearly wipe out a couple of rows from where I was weeding, but I manage to keep my feet beneath me. A guard shouts for me to stop, but I’m already bursting onto the dirt path.

Flint starts at my sudden appearance. His weapon comes up, and he freezes when he recognizes me.

“What the hell is this?” I say, grabbing his dark shirt and balling it in my fist. “My pack . . . Flint, my pack is here and you’re . . . how are you . . .”

“That won’t be necessary,” he says, his gaze drifting over my shoulder, and I can only imagine that the guard who’d been chasing me has a weapon aimed at my back. If I turn to check, I fear I might pass out. Skies, if I let go of Flint’s shirt, I might pass out.

“Delta,” he says, eyeing me up and down. “You look awful. Have you had anything to drink?”

I squeeze the cloth harder. “You’re a Loyalist?”

He shrugs in the indifferent way he’s always had about him. Flint was never much of a talker.

I drop his shirt in disgust. “What happened to trading?”