“See, there will be the herd, and then there will be everyone else. Not divided by race, exactly. Just divided by purpose. And the purpose of Indigenous people will be to give birth to the answer. What more noble purpose could you ever ask for?” He paused, reaching into his waistband and pulling out the tracker.

“Now we’ll send a signal so the team knows to get ready. That way they can start heading in this direction. And then tomorrow, our futures are secure!” He looked up, waiting for me to join in the celebration, the absolute joy of this new world where we were, if not architects, at least laborers. And then his face fell.

I stood in front of him, arrow nocked, bowstring drawn. Rose was gone. Mitch had taken away any outcome where she existed, where I could hold her and breathe in the smell of her hair, the salt of her neck. And now he was coming for Wab and her baby.

“What are you doing?” He spun around, checking the woods behind him, looking for a target other than the obvious.

He took a half step back, hand out. “Seriously, cut it out, French.”

“Francis,” I reminded him. “You’re not family. I’m Francis.”

“French—Francis—listen to me. Don’t you see? We can save so many of our people this way, for just a small sacrifice.”

I closed one eye and moved the aim to his heart. “My people. Not yours. Mine. Yours are back at the school.”

He froze, one hand still up, the other by his side, holding the tracker. “Let’s just stop and think for a minute, here. You don’t want to do this.”

That’s when I looked at the device. It was blinking green, the small thrum of light bouncing against his leg.

“You’re right, I don’t.” I took a full breath. Then I released my fingers from the string.

The thing about arrows is that they are quiet. So if your prey doesn’t know you’re there, you have a better chance of it staying still, of being hit exactly where you aimed. But an arrow is not a bullet. It’s slower, less exact. Things like wind and muscle tension and shadows can impact the blow.

But this time, everything that could have made the arrow arc or question its intent held its breath. And the tip entered just to the right of his sternum, burying itself in the striated muscle of his conflicted heart. And unlike legs, you only have one of those.

Mitch staggered, placed a hand on the shaft protruding from his chest, and looked up at me, incredulous. “French?”

His voice bent one way, then the other, wavering as if the breath that pushed it was too much, too fast, too temporary and rushed.

A thin line of blood slipped out of the corner of his mouth, and his features began to change, animated by confusion, fear calling across the distance. He blinked, long and stilted, one eye opening after the other, focusing on my face. “We need to run.” He staggered instead.