Still, maybe Derrick was right. Maybe rushing headlong into another confrontation with the Recruiters would only mean another one of them—maybe her this time—lying in the road, failing lungs grasping at breath like a fist already clenched.

He took the pause as an opportunity to continue. “Just sit for a minute. After that, if you really want to head off on your own with no direction and no backup, well, then, I’ll let you go.” Still holding on to her, he directed her to a tree trunk snapped near the ground and lying horizontal by moss and splinters. She allowed herself to be lowered, and their weight pushed the wood to creak.

Sudden rest filled her limbs with fatigue, and she couldn’t hold out anymore. She leaned over and put her forehead on Derrick’s shoulder, the tradecloth of his jacket rough against her skin. And then she began to cry. He put his arm around her and pulled her closer, eyes trained on the expanse of forest around them, just in case.

With this beautiful, broken girl finally soft against him, Derrick couldn’t help but wonder if maybe French leaving wasn’t such a bad thing, an opportunity instead of just a loss. He’d been out here on the run with other Natives since the government had started hunting them, since people had gotten raddled enough by the Plague sickness and the inability to dream and started believing that Indigenous people were the answer. And he’d been alone, even in the increasingly crowded camp. There had never been someone who had moved him the way Rose did, who had reminded him that life in this apocalypse was more than just survival, or at least it could be.

He shook his head, swearing to himself under his breath. No, that’s not how he should be thinking right now, not ever. It was them against the world, and every man counted. Every man deserved to be found. But still, Rose’s body against his made thinking…complicated.

✦✦✦ ✦✦✦ ✦✦✦

The last flames were flickering orange in the mid-morning grey. Chi Boy put an arm at Wab’s waist and guided her back to their tent to rest. She shouldn’t have been up all night, walking around, but Wab was not the kind of person you directed. She was always in charge, especially of herself. When he’d suggested she lie down, she’d fidgeted with the beaded patch covering her permanently closed eye, then run her finger down the heavy brocade of a keloid scar that split the side of her face. She should organize another wave of searchers. She should find those who could climb as well as French could to take to the trees to get a better look at the landscape. It was foggy, but there might be something. Maybe she should gather the Council again to see if they could call in their informant. It’d been a long night, and many were just now grabbing some sleep, but she could rouse them. Finally, though, the baby made the decision for her, sucking the last bit of energy from her muscles, and she allowed herself to be led away, back to camp. She’d rest, but only for an hour, and then they’d set out again.