The blade buries into his chest. He looks down at it, shocked. He still has enough life in him to shoot me, but he’s so surprised at what’s unfolded that he just stands there staring as blood begins to soak his shirt. By the time he looks up, ready to fire, I’m already directly before him. I grab the hilt, yank the knife free.

“Rest easy.”

I slice the blade across his neck.

Hot blood splays my cheek as he crumples to the ground.

I strip off his black shirt, knowing it will do me little good as a disguise if it’s completely soaked in blood. It’s only after I’ve pulled it over my jacket that the horror of it catches up with me.

I look at his pale torso gleaming in the sun.

I’ve never killed a person. Quail and fish and jackrabbits and the occasional desert mule, but never this. His eyes still hold the fear that filled his face as my blade drew across his neck.

I retch, not managing to look away quickly enough.

I need to move. Need to leave.

His horse is still harnessed to the wagon.

It’s then that my eyes catch another horror. There in the wagon, the very corpse I’d been lying on, is Ma. The line on her neck, the state of her skull . . . it’s too much. This time I really am sick.

A shadow flicks over my arm, dancing over the dirt. I look up, fearing one of the Four’s falcons, but it’s only vultures, already circling overhead, ready to eat.

Using the Loyalist’s waterskin, I wash the bile from my mouth. Then I drag Ma to the pyre and roll her into the flames. She is the fourth of my own pack that I’ve burned, but unlike Old Fang, Astra, and Cobel at Dead River, hers is the only death I can claim responsibility for. This happened because of me—because of what I can’t do.

The brand on my back practically burns, taunting me with its unreadable markings.

“Rest easy,” I manage, tears stinging my eyes.

I turn away from the flames, from the smell.

I can’t stay here.

I need to be in the Barrel before Twill leaves. If I cross him on the wastes, everything will fall apart.

My pants are dark enough to be Loyalist black, but I pull up the hood of the Loyalist’s shirt, hoping it will hide my hair and help me pass as one of the General’s men when I get to the Barrel. Then I sling the Loyalist’s long rifle across my back and lower the wagon from his horse. I take his knife and waterskin, too, then ride.