Afa was still screaming, sobbing hysterically, but at least he was still alive. She cast her eyes around the kitchen, searching for anything she could use—towels to wipe them dry or food to calm them down—and saw that the sink had two faucets, a normal one and a strange, industrial hand pump. She stared at it, caught by the incongruity, and then it dawned on her.

“This is a farmhouse!” she shouted, rushing toward the cupboards. “They have a well!”

“What?” asked Heron.

“They’re too far out of town for the normal water system, so they have well water—their own aquifer deep underground, and their own pump to work it.” She clattered in the cupboards, finding the biggest bucket she could and rushing it to the sink. “There are a couple of these on farms back home, and they’re the only running water on the island. These pumps are completely self-contained, so they should still work.” She worked the handle, but it was stiff and dry; she threw open the refrigerator, found a jar of rancid pickles, and poured the pungent juice down the pump to prime it. She worked it again, up and down, up and down; Heron joined her, and suddenly the water came gushing out into the pot. Kira filled it while Heron grabbed another, and when it was filled they picked it up together and threw the water at the horses, washing some of the acid away. They pumped again, repeating the process, throwing bucket after bucket at the horses until Kira was sure the well would run dry. Little by little the horses calmed, the acid washed off their backs, and the two girls ran in to cut Afa loose and drag him, still sobbing, to the kitchen. His clothes, still on him, were nearly eaten away, and his back was a mass of welts and burns and blisters. Heron pumped another bucket of water, and Kira went back to the horses to unbuckle the saddles and bags and pull out the medicine. Afa was too hoarse now to scream, and only rocked back and forth on the floor; Samm looked unconscious, or deep in meditation to control the pain, and Kira wondered how damaged his eyes really were. She paused, exhausted, and looked at Heron.

Heron looked back, just as drained, and shook her head. “You still think we made the right decision, Kira?”

No, thought Kira, but she forced herself to say “Yes.”

“You’d better hope so,” said Heron. “We’re only about twenty miles into this toxic wasteland. We’ve got another seven hundred to go.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO