The alarm still blared on the other side of the hatch, but it was muffled now. The cold, stale air was the sweetest I had ever tasted. Malachi made a sound like the beginning of a word, then broke into a long coughing fit. I squeezed his hand, offering silent reassurance, though not yet daring to speak. His cough was terrible but familiar—the same sound he had made on the day we met, the day he came out of the desert, a stranger in the winter twilight, asking for help as though he already knew what my answer would be. The uncertainty had come later, after we had walked the hard-packed path from the perimeter to the heart of the homestead. The stammering, the averted eyes, the hesitation before every decision, that had only come when he faced Adam for the first time and began to tell his story. How hard he had worked to learn, to excel, to become useful. How many times he had tried to convince the Councils to grant him citizenship. How every rejection was another wound, until he bore so many he had layers of scars around his heart. He had been ashamed until he realized we did not blame him for the fickle cruelty of the Councils. Adam wanted the wretches and wanderers the Councils had no use for: there had been no doubt he would take Malachi in.

I remembered all of this, and more, as we recovered in the darkness. He had been with us so long I had forgotten how easily he had slipped into the homestead and the family. Malachi threatened nobody, least of all Adam. The only person he had ever frightened was me, in that cold purple twilight, when my doubts and my gun were no match for his smile.

“We need light,” Malachi said. His breath was warm on my cheek. “Can I just—I need to reach around you.”

I pressed myself against the metal ladder. He reached past me, accidentally bumped my face with his elbow, whispered a quiet apology. I heard the wheeze in his lungs, the creak of the ladder. I imagined, even, that I could hear his heartbeat.

“Ah. Here we go.”

A blue glow pierced the darkness. Malachi had found a control panel.

“You could have gone with them,” I said.

The words were a rasp of air, but loud enough to startle him into looking at me. Although his skin was soft brown in sunlight, now he looked sickly and pale. His curly brown hair was damp and plastered to his head. His lips were chapped and cracked.

“What?” he said.

“You should have gone with them. You could have convinced them. They need you.”

“Zahra,” Malachi said. He took in a breath, let it out slowly. “They tried to kill us.”

“They’re only doing what they think is right. What they think Adam would want.”

“Which is it?”

“Which is what?”