Now I recognized him again—the scared boy running through the streets of a hostile city, dragging his little charge behind him. The confused boy trying to find shelter and food for two mouths in the absence of a caretaker. The brother looking for a way to survive without knowing what survival looked like anymore.

He lifted a hand toward me. “Come on, French. We gotta get out of here. Just us. Please…”

Oh god, he was crying. He rolled his eyes to the treetops, to the sky, and turned, one foot forward, then thrown back to try to keep him upright. My breath was quick, too quick; I was panting. I wanted to grab him, to hold him, to run with him, anywhere, anywhere but here. Anywhere but now.

The tracker dropped as he walked, uneven and halting and in no particular direction. He was pushing his breath out now, wheezing it back in, a forced series of mechanics that showed the absurdity in the work of living. In and out, again and again.

He reached the base of a large pine and put a hand on the bark to hold him up. Once more, he turned back to me. His breathing was slow, and slower, and gone. Blood covered his chin so that his face looked like a skull with no jaw. Dead already. Dead long enough for there to be nothing left to see but his bones and the dreams they could hold, the dreams he dreamed while lying next to me. The dreams he hid, maybe even now, waiting for the night when he’d be free to let them spill. I hoped they were there now. I hoped he was dreaming already.

“We ran, Mitch.” My voice cracked. “We ran all the way home.”

A small twitch, something close to a smile, and then he fell into the dark bush, one shoe left empty beside the tree, his body curling fetal like a plastic figurine in a fire.

I didn’t know how long I stood there, bow still raised, chest heaving, but it was the blinking tracker that called me back, sure and exact as an alarm clock. Time was ticking by, one blip to the next.

I dropped the bow and ran over and stomped on it, smashing the plastic to bits, pulling out its wiry guts and tearing at the connections until there was no more light, until I was sure it was not broadcasting. Even then, I tossed pieces in different directions. Then I gathered up the bow and quiver and ran as fast as I could. I was already out of the pines when the crows started cawing.

I burst into the clearing. Miig sat by the fire, probably waiting for me to return so we could talk. He shot to his feet. “What is it? What did you do?”

I gasped for air, looking at him, and I knew. I knew that he knew. He knew exactly who I was, exactly who Mitch was. He knew, but I had to convince him to follow me anyway. “They’re on the way.”