Before I could go, she grabbed my wrist. Her fingers were bony.

“I’ve got others to help,” I said.

“There’s right and there’s wrong,” she said. “You can do everything right, moment by moment, and still end up on the wrong side, too beaten down to fight things anymore.”

Why this? Why now? I had the feeling it was more of a confession than advice. She wasn’t Fallen, not at heart? She’d just… ended up here?

How the hell did that happen?

Maybe that in itself was the confession.

“I’ve been beaten down before,” I said. “I’ll find a way to keep fighting. Humans are resilient. We made it through Gold Morning.”

“It’s very easy to lose sight of how beaten down you are,” she said. “Don’t let the little things slide. We have to be vigilant.”

“We do,” I said. “Part of my vigilance is making sure those kids survive. I need to go next door. If you want help getting out, ask for a guy called Gilpatrick, okay? He’s one of the best people I know, and his whole job is knowing and providing resources to people who need it.”

She looked back at her house. She released my wrist and pulled the door closed, drawing herself up taller.

“Bless,” she said. “Many of these people do not deserve to be saved.”

I could have responded. I decided to keep my mouth shut. I wanted her to go so I could help others, not to get caught in a conversation.

Ducking low, she ran across the field, and I flew between her and the worst of the fighting with the wretch out, to provide a bit of a shield.

At the edge of the settlement, where the buildings were thinning out, there was a thick cloud of black smoke. Beast of Burden was there, and Damsel was standing behind him, using him as a shield. I could see the spidery form of Nailbiter and I could make out crackles of lightning backed by dark smoke, along the dirt road and a nearby lean-to or outhouse. There were some gunshots, and I could hear the revving of more bikes.

I flew to the next house. Someone was already on the porch, watching me and the distant fighting. No gun pointed at me, only a look of worry from a guy with a high forehead and blond hair that really needed combing. He had a boy with him, a bit younger than Kenzie, just as blond, just as disheveled, hair-wise. No tattoos—I wouldn’t have known him for Fallen if I’d seen him on the street. They looked like their clothes and even their bodies badly needed washing, like both were homeless, despite having a fairly large farmhouse to reside in.