With a satisfied smile, I layered the logs on top of each other in a small circle. As I finished, a sliver of wood pierced my palm. My breath hissed. Dammit. It was bleeding. I was about to call out to Hosea for help when, suddenly, I froze. I set the log down and surveyed the trees lining our camp. Their dark limbs were menacing. My smug satisfaction vanished. I might have made a point earlier, but so had he—though he hadn’t intended to.

There was a gaping hole in my plan to escape. If not for Hosea’s curtly issued orders, I would have had no idea what to do with the firewood. I didn’t know how to set a perimeter, or ward off animals. I couldn’t cook, find water or make clothes. I picked at the splinter in my hand as Hosea moved to the other side of camp with a sample of plants he’d collected earlier.

I watched covertly as he settled down, emptied the pouch and made several rows of leaves and roots on the ground before him. Working with great care, he selected a small heart-shaped leaf and compared it to an illustration in a book he took from his pack. His brow creased in concentration.

The sliver of wood came free and I tossed it aside. There was no help for it, I realized. I could not escape tonight. I would stay a few days, watch Hosea, and learn what I needed to survive. I raised my voice and called across the clearing, “Where did you learn about medicine?”

He made a notation in his book and called back, “Books, practice—apprenticeship.”

I scratched my chin. “Books, I assume, you got from your father.”

He nodded.

“And your first patients were Vine workers. You told me that much before.”

Again, he nodded.

“But who did you study under?”

He inspected another leaf and continued writing. “I studied medicine under my birth mother.”

“And where did she learn?”

“From my grandmother, who learned from her grandmother just after the War.”

I recalled Saxon saying Hosea’s mother had been young during her affair with the Director. “Your mother must have been talented.” Hosea didn’t correct my use of the past tense.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

“Well, because you’re quite gifted.”

He looked up at me. “I do more than numb the pain, which is all the medicine men do. But, barely more.”

I didn’t argue with him. “How did you know I was wondering about the fire earlier?”

I’d caught him off guard, and he responded without pretense. “Your eyes. Everything you feel is written there. Most of what you think, too.” He hesitated. “You should guard yourself more closely, Cobane.”