She touched the device over her eye a few times, her fingers fluttering and skitty. Perry looked away. The eyepiece was disgusting. A parasite. And it reminded him too much of the men who’d taken Talon. He went back to work, tearing the other leather cover off. Then he took his bag and knelt in front of her. He lifted her foot, pushed the bandage aside.

“You’re healing up.”

She sucked in a breath. “Let go. Don’t touch me.”

The cold scent of her fear came at him, flickering blue at the edges of his vision. “Steady, Mole,” he said, letting go of her foot. “We have a deal. If you help me, I won’t hurt you.”

“What are you doing?” she asked, looking at the ripped covers. Her pale skin had nearly gone white.

“Making you shoes. There aren’t any in the supplies. You can’t travel barefoot.”

Cautiously she gave him her foot. Perry set it on the book cover. “Be still as you can.” He took Talon’s knife and traced the outline of her foot with the tip of the blade. He was careful not to touch her as that triggered her panic.

“You don’t have a pen or anything?” she asked.

“A pen? Lost it about a hundred years ago.”

“I didn’t think Outsiders lived that long.”

Perry looked down, hiding his face. Was that a joke? Did Dwellers live that long?

“Are you a shoemaker or something?” she asked after a moment. “A cobbler?”

Did she think this was what he’d come up with if he were? “No. I’m a hunter.”

“Oh. That explains a lot.”

Perry didn’t know what it explained other than that he hunted.

“So you . . . kill things? Animals and things?”

Perry closed his eyes. Then he sat back and gave her a wide grin. “If it moves, I kill it. Then I gut it, skin it, and eat it.”

She shook her head, her eyes dazed. “I just . . . I can’t believe you’re real.”

Perry scowled at her. “What else would I be, Mole?”

She kept quiet for a while after that. Perry finished outlining her feet. He cut the impressions out. Poked holes into the binding with the tip of the blade, working as swiftly as he could. This close, her Dweller scent was making him sick.

“My name is Aria.” She waited for him to say something. “Don’t you think we should know each other’s names if we’re going to be allies?” She arched a dark eyebrow, mocking his earlier use of the word.

“We might be allies, Mole, but we’re not friends.” He laced the leather cord through the holes and then tied them around her ankles. “Try those.”

She stood and took a few steps, drawing up her pants so she could see her feet. “They’re good,” she said, surprised.