He beat at the door. Even once he felt the cart jerk and the horses began to move, he rained fury upon the wood with his fists, shouting for his mother, as though she might still hear him as he moved farther and farther away. And when that did not work, and his voice began to grow hoarse, he broke and he shouted his father’s name too. Even though it was not a name he was ever supposed to say aloud.

His sire did not come either. And the wagon kept going and going, long past the time his voice gave out and he had only his fists with which to speak.

“Enough,” a soft voice said, floating toward him from somewhere in the darkness. “You have hurt yourself enough.”

He stood quickly, and spun to plant his back against the door.

“Who’s there?”

There was shuffling in the darkness. “Someone like you.”

It sounded like a girl. A scoff curled in his throat and he said, “I doubt that.”

“We’re locked in the same cart, aren’t we? That’s one thing in common. And I can promise there’s at least one more thing that makes us alike. Neither of us are ever going back to the lives we had before.”

The boy absorbed that knowledge. It was a reasonable conclusion, especially given the soldiers and his mother’s reaction. He thought he ought to be more sad to have lost his whole life. But he had always thought it was a rather abysmal life anyway. His mother rarely let him leave their small one-room home. There were no other boys or girls around to play. His father used to visit on occasion when Cruze was younger, but he had stopped coming several years ago. And if not even his mother had cared to keep him, why should he care to stay?

“Maybe we’ll have better lives,” he insisted.

The darkness stilled around him, and the girl did not reply. After a while, he realized that was her answer. His fists had begun to throb, so he slumped down on the floor and cradled them carefully in his lap. Gradually, the gentle sway of the wagon lowered his defenses, and sleep helped him forget the pain.