Mouse kept expecting someone to give him a gun and order him to kill one of them. He’d heard stories about how the warlords recruited. He knew what was coming, and he dreaded it.

He kicked and beat and burned the townspeople, waiting for the next horror, and the people of Banyan Town looked at him with all the hatred that they used to reserve for soldier boys.

The warboys laughed and encouraged him.

Mouse wanted to cry, to make it all stop, to just refuse, but the one time he flinched, they made him do more. They made him hit harder. He hesitated to thrash Auntie Selima with a bamboo cane the way they wanted, and so they made him do it again and again, until her back was bloody ribbons. And then they made him salt the wounds.

Mouse wanted to vomit, but he learned the lesson.

Once, he apologized to Mr. Donato after he’d kicked the man in the ribs, for being too slow getting up, but he couldn’t tell if the man was even listening.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to. I’m sorry.”

But he was too much of a coward to stop doing what Lieutenant Sayle and the others ordered him to do.

One night, in the darkness by a campfire, Mouse finally just gave up and asked when it would happen. When would they make him kill these people who had taken him in?

Sergeant Ocho had plopped down beside him and asked, “How you doing, soldier?”

Mouse stared at the prisoners, but didn’t answer.

Keep silent. Ride through. Don’t let them know what you’re thinking.

He thought of Mahlia, who tried so hard to never let her feelings show on her face. To never let anyone know what was going on inside her head. No weakness. The only way to survive amongst these coywolv was to hide all your fear and weakness. Never show anything.

But Ocho saw right through. He followed Mouse’s gaze to the prisoners.

“It’s hard to get broke in, no doubt. This is the hardest part.”

Mouse kept his mouth shut, not daring to say anything. It was another test. If he said what he was thinking, they’d come up with some new way to hurt the townspeople and him. If he showed where he was vulnerable, they’d put a knife right there and twist and twist, and then after he’d cried and hurt enough and given away another weakness, they might just decide to blow his head off.

“After we get rid of these maggots, it’ll be better,” Ocho said. Then he gave a sort of laugh and said, “Well, it’ll be clearer, anyway. When you’re shooting at Freedom Militia or Army of God, you don’t got to feel sorry for them, ’cause you know they’ll do you the same.”