There’s something about the shriveled figure and the voice that seems familiar. I gesture for Raffe to stay back while I go talk to the person. I skirt around the beam of light to reach her.

It’s Clara. She hugs her shriveled body, looking even smaller than usual. The cheeks that look like beef jerky glisten with tears as she sobs alone.

“Hey, Clara. It’s me, Penryn.” I call softly to her from a few feet away so I don’t scare her to death. She gasps, and it’s clear I practically give her a heart attack anyway.

She half-smiles and half-sobs when she realizes it’s me. I walk over and sit by her. The broken boards are hard and damp. I can’t believe she’s been sitting here for hours.

“Why are you still here? You should be running as far away as you can.”

“This place is as close as I can get to my family now.” Her voice breaks. “We had happy Sundays here.” She shakes her head slowly. “That, and I have nowhere else to go.”

I’m about to tell her to go to the Resistance camp when I remember how they treated her and the other scorpion victims. People who would rather bury their loved ones alive than risk having them changed like Clara will probably never accept someone like her. No wonder she didn’t go down the bay with the Resistance.

I put my arm around her shoulder and give her a squeeze. It’s all I can think to do.

She gives me a weak smile but tears streak down her face again and her face crumples.

Something clanks and rolls nearby.

We both tense, proving that Clara is not quite ready to give up.

A grubby little girl with a mass of finely tangled hair runs a couple of steps out of hiding behind a car. An adult arm reaches out and tries to grab her.

“No, it’s her,” says the girl. “I heard her. She’s here.”

Someone whispers urgently from behind the car.

The girl shakes her head. She turns and runs toward us.

“Get back here!” whispers the urgent voice from behind the car. A man sprints out, running half-crouched. He snatches the little thing into his arms and runs back. The kid squirms like a sack of puppies. She kicks and twists and tries to scream bloody murder but he has his hand over her mouth.

Her muffled yells sound a lot like, “Mommy!”

Beside me, Clara sits perfectly still.

A second girl’s face peeks out from behind the car. She’s a little bigger but just as grubby with hair just as tangled. She looks wide-eyed at us.

“Ella?” Clara whispers so softly that even I have trouble hearing her. She gets up, almost panting. “Ella?” She lurches, then runs toward them.

Uh-oh. This could be really wonderful or really awful.