Samm nodded to the right, and they followed the fence as quietly as they could, slipping through the healthy grass and bushes that surrounded the mysterious complex. Soon they came upon a wide gate, open and empty, and they watched it from the shadows for nearly ten minutes before determining that it was, indeed, unguarded. Thick undergrowth around the base of the gate made Kira suspect it hadn’t been closed in years.

“Does somebody live here?” Kira whispered.

“I . . .” Samm seemed lost for words. “I have no idea.”

“Is there an outpost here?” she asked. “Some kind of . . . Partial base or . . .”

“I would have said something if I’d known.”

“Well, who else could it be?”

They stared at the open gate, trying to work up the nerve to enter.

“We still haven’t found Heron,” said Samm. “She could be in there, or she could be hiding and waiting for us.”

“Only one way to find out.” Kira crept forward, gun ready. She wasn’t about to stall, not when they were so close, not if there was a Partial settlement here. After a moment, Samm seemed to agree and follow her.

They walked past the fence into the bizarre paradise beyond. Kira marveled, awestruck by the vibrant plant life that surrounded them, and again they saw the lights—fires, Kira was certain, but unlike the smoldering disasters in the city, these seemed small and controlled, just as Heron had said. Campfires, or bonfires. They crept through the darkness, and soon they heard them.

Voices. Happy voices, laughing and singing, with another sound in the midst of it, something Kira had thought she’d never hear again. She broke into a run, all caution forgotten, and when she saw them she dropped to her knees, too overcome with emotion to run or speak or even think.

Children.

The bonfire leapt and crackled in the middle of a clearing, surrounded by low buildings and a crowd of dancing people, and dancing through the midst of them were children—infants and preteens, ten-year-olds and toddlers. Dozens of children of every age and size, laughing and whooping and clapping their hands, singing as a small band played pipes and fiddles in the firelight. Kira sank into the grass and cried, weeping and sobbing and trying to talk, but there were no words. Samm knelt beside her and she clung to him, holding him, pointing to the children, and Samm was trying to pull her away but all she wanted to do was get closer, to see them for herself, to touch them and hold them. They had seen her now, the children and the adults and everyone; the music had stopped, and the singing, and they were rising to their feet in shock and surprise. Samm tried again to pull Kira to her feet, and she finally managed to speak to the crowd of strangers inching toward them.

“You have children.”