Ma rushes to our storage shelves, gathering anything of value that we might be able to trade. Three of her glass jars, one filled with salt, another flour, and the third baking soda. Then a loaf of bread for good measure and a handful of our pathetic potatoes. She wraps it all in a towel and tucks it into my rucksack.

“What if there’s another storm?” Astra asks as I shoulder the bag.

“They rarely strike back to back, and if I move fast, I can be to Zuly’s by nightfall.”

“Indie is in no state to walk.”

“I’ll tow her. There’s a dragger in the stable. I used it to move driftwood around while extending the dock. I can use it to move Indie, too.”

“Be careful,” Ma says, and presses a kiss into my forehead. “Trust—”

“—no one,” I finish.

Trust no one. The rule of the wastes, the law of the land, our guiding order since Alkali Lake.

I slip upstairs and run to retrieve the dragger. Our camp has been transformed by the storm. The bonfire is a heaping mound of sand, and the huts all look lopsided now, sand and dirt piled up on their western sides, where the wind blew in.

Pewter’s at the stable, checking the animals. “Delta,” she gasps, startled by my sudden appearance. She meets my eyes, then frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Indie. I’m taking her to Zuly’s.” I pull ropes and harnesses from the hooks until I reach the dragger.

“But that’s . . . You can’t. It’s not safe.”

“No. But someone has to take her.” I throw the dragger down, use a broom to clear it off.

“Let me help.” Pewter shakes the braided handle, sending dust scattering, then reaches for the broom. I let her take it. She’s been helping me patch a leak in the dam lately, and I’ve seen what an efficient worker she is. As she cleans, I return the other ropes to their hooks, and by the time we get the dragger outside, a small crowd has gathered, wide-eyed and worried. Zuly’s care comes to us by traders carrying meds. We never go to her. They know as much as I do that this is bad.

Ma and Astra help me load Indie onto the dragger, and Pewter brings two jars of fresh water from Old Fang’s stores, then pours them into my waterskin. I race through goodbyes, hugging everyone in turn, even Astra’s boy, Cobel, who’s fifteen and declared himself too big for hugs five years ago. Then I slip the dragger’s braided handle over my shoulder and across my torso and trudge off. It’s hardest for the first few steps, but once I get moving, the sledge skids over the ground with a bit less fight.