Somewhere in the distance, Hurley sneezed three times. Booster commanded him to use his towel, and Voltaire shouted at them both. Walker’s slow drawl hushed them all. And their animosity quieted into snores. I smiled. They were dangerous outlaws, but they were family. I rolled onto my back, wove my fingers together and placed them behind my head, imagining a family of my own.

A moment later, my gut kicked as a dark reality occurred to me. Even after I escaped, a family was out of the question. Whether from fever, war, or regimented extermination, the bandits—and most of the Kongo—would be dead within the year. And under that hoax of a Compromise, I was still powerless to save them. Trying would merely forfeit my own safety. I gasped suddenly, as something hard hit my temple. I sat up, rubbed my head and looked around. In the wood beyond the clearing was a dark figure—Voltaire! He held a finger to his mouth, warning me to be quiet. He waved me closer.

I hesitated. During supper, a mouthful of water had rinsed the red from his gums, and he’d removed his eye patch entirely. When I asked about the source of his bloodstained teeth, Hurley had wheezed with laughter. “Berries,” he’d said, his nose honking. “Them were just berries.” Finally, curiosity won out. I stood and followed Voltaire.

He stopped at his bedroll, laid out beside Fly Man. He was dressed for sleep in a nightgown. But, true to form, he wore an elaborately decorated band on his head, noisily proclaiming his leadership. I sighed. “What am I doing here, Voltaire?”

“You are a Record Keeper,” he said.

My hackles rose. I knew he despised my classification. However, taking in his bare feet and headdress, I couldn’t muster the energy to care. I deflated. “And if I am?” I said.

“Then I require your service.” He pulled a book from his gown. “I taught Fly Man as much as possible, but we ran out of time. He can’t read the big words.” He handed me the book.

I glanced at the boy. In sleep, Fly Man reminded me of Fount.

“He sleeps like a rock,” Voltaire said, following my gaze. “If that’s what you’re worried about, we won’t wake him.”

I studied the coverless book in my hands, wondering what he meant about running out of time. I didn’t ask. Instead, I guessed the book’s title. “Candide, or, The Optimist, by Voltaire,” I said. “Is that where your name comes from? This old-world book?”

Voltaire looked grim. “I’m not sure. I found it sewed into the lining of my trousers when I woke up here—after my trial.”

I remembered Voltaire’s men had rescued him, but not before ten Rebirth pills were administered as punishment.