The shelter the rest of her knot had erected was much larger and more permanent than her own tent. They had salvaged large pieces of aluminium and even four seats from the battler, now decorating the rudimentary home. It was no parachute on sticks.

A rattling sound drew her attention to one corner. Thrym was leaning over someone. Deimos! She rushed across the shelter and sank to her knees beside him.

She gasped, pressing a hand to her mouth as nausea threatened to overwhelm her at the sight of her frail knot mate. His skin was stark white, utterly devoid of blood. Deimos lay as still as death. Other than the shuddering rise of his chest, there was little sign that he was alive.

“What’s his injury?” she whispered.

“A jagged piece of wreckage stabbed him in the side on landing. It’s definitely injured his lungs, but we don’t know the severity.” Each soldier possessed decent medical training for small wounds, and Thrym was fairly knowledgeable, always having held a stronger interest in this area than the others.

Romy stood angrily. “Why aren’t his nanos working?”

Phobos slumped visibly. “You know they only work to a certain severity, Ro.”

She refused to believe Deimos was going to die. “What have you tried?”

“We wash the wound daily, but we’re running low on water.”

“I know where a river is.”

“Romy. . . .”

“It’s not harmful. I’ve been drinking it for the last four days. And . . . Atlas has lived here for five years.”

Phobos and Thrym both turned to her, jaws dropped.

She nodded and spread her arms wide and spun in a slow circle.

“The man you were with appeared healthy, too,” Thrym mused. “I assumed the ocean water didn’t affect us because we had the suits on. Are you sure you’re okay? I’ll check you after Deimos.”

Usually Romy would poke fun at his overprotective tendencies. But just hearing his voice, she didn’t have the courage to because at any second it could all be ripped away.

“Wait, wait, wait. What man?” Phobos looked between them. “There’s someone else here on Earth?”

Romy dropped her pack against the tent wall, averting her face. “Yes, but he’s gone now.”

* * *

As the wind began to steadily rise, Elara returned.

She sprinted to where Romy still kept vigil at Deimos’s side. The girls embraced, resting their foreheads together and exchanging stories in hushed voices.

Elara sagged in her arms. It was strange; when Romy had imagined this moment, she’d been the one leaning on Elara. Romy tightened her hold on the pixie-featured girl.

“Is he okay?” Romy asked.

Elara cast a worried glance at Phobos, whispering. “His breathing seems worse.”

Thrym eyed the sides of the shelter with distrust. “Phobos, come help me outside. The wind is growing stronger.”

Phobos knelt beside Deimos, his head bent. Romy didn’t know if he’d heard Thrym at all.