A woman old enough to be his grandmother stood on a stoop with a haggard face, aimed, and fired again. Two of the thugs had been hit—one dead, the other howling from a bullet to the leg. Asshole number three grabbed Corday’s box and ran off, abandoning his bleeding cohort to whatever fate awaited him.

The woman shot one final time, the bleeding man took one to the chest, and she lowered her weapon.

Visibly shaken, far more frightened than he was, the lady offered, “Why don’t you step inside for a minute. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

She’d just saved his life. It was the best damn tea he’d ever drunk.

He learned her name was Margery, that all her family had died or gone missing as the occupation continued. She and several of her friends had taken refuge together in that apartment—safety in numbers—until those numbers started diminishing too. Being over sixty and a single woman in Thólos was a death sentence... she’d begun to despair, until she found faith in herself.

The woman reached into a pocket of her coat and pulled out something Corday had seen before, something almost everyone in the city still whispered about: Claire’s flyer.

“If she can stand up, so can I.” The way her gnarled fingers brushed the photo spoke of reverence. It spoke of pity and compassion—something Corday had not seen amongst the mustering rebel forces. No, they were hard. They had to be to have chosen to make themselves living weapons to serve the greater good.

Looking at Claire’s picture was like a knife in the heart. Brown eyes shining with pain, he glanced away from the paper. “Claire was my friend.”

“She’s my friend too.” Margery said, that same trembling hand reaching forward to pat Corday’s hand. “Though I have never met her.”

It seemed Claire had gotten her last wish. Some part of Thólos had become inspired. And because of it, one old woman had just saved his life.

Claire O’Donnell was right.

Corday sat there like a dunce, worrying the ring on his finger as he talked about his time with the missing Omega. He let Margery fuss over him until the adrenaline wore off and her hands stopped shaking. He told her everything he could remember about his friend.

His supplies were gone, hers were meager, yet she packed him a bag of food anyway.

“There are more of us, you know,” Margery offered, “passing around the flyer. We help each other.” She gave him a fresh copy of Claire’s picture, held out the food, as if she could draw him to the cause.” Rheumy eyes shone bright as she smiled. “We have to help each other.”

Reluctantly, he took her scant offering, certain it would do harm to the woman’s morale if he did not let her do her part.