These were not the tears of a child, and that made them more profound—made it more sacred and painful that he would cry them in front of me. This was the grief of a man at the funeral for his entire family.

My arms wound around him, not fitting as easily as they used to, and I cried, too.

“I’m sorry,” I said again and again. I apologized for everything in those two words. That we’d ever found this place. That we’d chosen it. That I’d been the one to take his sister. That I’d brought her back here and hurt him again. That I’d made him cry today with my insensitive stories.

I didn’t drop my arms when his anguish quieted; I was in no hurry to let him go. It seemed as though my body had been starving for this from the beginning, but I’d never understood before now what would feed the hunger. The mysterious bond of mother and child—so strong on this planet—was not a mystery to me any longer. There was no bond greater than one that required your life for another’s. I’d understood this truth before; what I had not understood was why. Now I knew why a mother would give her life for her child, and this knowledge would forever shape the way I saw the universe.

“I know I’ve taught you better than that, kid.”

We jumped apart. Jamie lurched to his feet, but I curled closer to the ground, cringing into the wall.

Jeb leaned down and picked up the gun we’d both forgotten from the floor. “You’ve got to mind a gun better than this, Jamie.” His tone was very gentle—it softened the criticism. He reached out to tousle Jamie’s shaggy hair.

Jamie ducked under Jeb’s hand, his face scarlet with mortification.

“Sorry,” he muttered, and turned as if to flee. He stopped after just a step, though, and swiveled back to look at me. “I don’t know your name,” he said.

“They called me Wanderer,” I whispered.

“Wanderer?”

I nodded.

He nodded, too, then hurried away. The back of his neck was still red.

When he was gone, Jeb leaned against the rock and slid down till he was seated where Jamie had been. Like Jamie, he kept the gun cradled in his lap.

“That’s a real interesting name you’ve got there,” he told me. He seemed to be back to his chatty mood. “Maybe sometime you’ll tell me how you got it. Bet that’s a good story. But it’s kind of a mouthful, don’t you think? Wanderer?”

I stared at him.

“Mind if I call you Wanda, for short? It flows easier.”