“The others are so ilked-up they don’t notice anything but the coming and going of the drink wagon. She’ll be the same by tomorrow. Let it go.”

There’s a creak, and a shadow rolls over me. “You lot are in the way,” a new voice says.

I get an elbow beneath me. Lift my head. The convoy is back, and the lead wagon has stopped just paces from where I lie on the ground. The dark-skinned driver at the reins nods in my direction. “Well, are you gonna move her?”

“Drive over her if she doesn’t move herself,” the guard says. “Come on, Flint.”

And Flint goes. Doesn’t even argue. The traitorous ass turns his back and leaves me in the dirt, dizzy and weak. What Indie once said about lying with a person—how it makes you blind to their faults—rattles in my ears. Was I really that naive? Flint never talked much, and I had to get him blitzed before he ever shared anything useful, but he wasn’t always this awful person. He was just private, quiet. He wasn’t trying to hurt anyone.

He was selfish and always has been, my brain hisses. You had to get him blitzed because he was keeping secrets. He didn’t want you to know the way to Zuly’s Ark, because then you could go for meds on your own. He wasn’t eager to tell you about the inverted well, because then you wouldn’t be tied to Dead River. Anything that might have made you independent and erased the need for a trader, he kept secret until you pushed and begged for him to share it. He was always protecting himself, right until the moment he told the Loyalists about your brand.

I shake my head, and the world streaks white. I think I’m going to be sick.

“Get out of the way, girl,” the driver calls.

I try to stand but everything goes sideways. Dirt scratches my cheek. Running to confront Flint has left me empty. I’m not sure I could sit even if I want to.

A pair of leather boots enters my vision. Next thing I know, someone is slapping my cheek. “Hey, girl. Come back. That’s it. Open your eyes.”

The driver comes into focus slowly. Deep brown skin and hair cut close to her scalp. A woman. I hadn’t noticed that at first, but the height of her cheekbones and the smooth slope of her neck give it away. One of her eyes is hidden behind a patch. The other sweeps over me, honey-brown and wide.

“You got the right idea, though,” she says, drawing my arm behind her neck. “Only way out of here is with the dead.” She hoists me to my feet and all but drags me from the path.

“Help me,” I croak out. “Please.”