“This itching is driving me crazy. Like my arms are crawling with ants.”

Sara capped the canteen and put it aside. Fever or no fever, his color had her worried.

“That’s a good sign. It means you’re healing under there.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.” Withers took a long breath and let the air out slowly. “Fuck.”

Sancho was in the berth beneath him, swaddled in bandages; only the small pink circle of his face was showing. Sara knelt and took a stethoscope from her med kit to listen to his chest. She heard a wet rattle, like water sloshing in a can. It was dehydration, as much as anything, that was killing him; and yet he was drowning in his own lungs. His cheeks were blazing to the touch; the air around him was sharp with the smell of infection. She tucked the blanket around him and moistened a rag and held it to his lips.

“How’s he doing?” Withers asked from above.

Sara rose.

“He’s close, isn’t he? I can see it in your face.”

She nodded. “I don’t think it will be long now.”

Withers closed his eyes once more.

She pulled on her parka and climbed from the back of the truck, into the snow and sunlight. The orderly lines of soldiers had dissolved into clusters of three or four men, standing around with scowls of bored impatience on their faces, hoods drawn up over their heads, their noses runny from the cold. Up ahead, she saw where the problem lay. One of the trucks sat with its hood open, exhaling a plume of steam into the air. It was ringed by a group of soldiers, who were looking at it with bewilderment, as if it were a giant carcass they’d happened upon in the road.

Michael was standing on the bumper, his arms buried to the elbows in the engine. Greer, from atop his horse, said, “Can you fix it?”

Michael’s head emerged from under the hood. “I think it’s just a hose. I can replace it if the housing isn’t cracked. We’ll need more coolant, too.”

“How long?”

“Not more than half a hand.”

Greer lifted his head and shouted to the men, “Let’s tighten that perimeter! Blue up front, and mind that line of trees! Donadio! Where the hell’s Donadio?”

Alicia came riding from the front, her rifle slung, wreaths of steam swirling around her face. Despite the cold she had shucked her parka and was wearing only a compartmented vest over her jersey.

Greer said, “Looks like we’re stuck here for a while. Might as well have a look at what’s down the road. We’re going to have to make up some time.”