“We’re stuck together now, the only bit of blood we each have left,” I whisper. “I’m the delta and you’re the bay. I lead to you. You depend on me. We’re a team, and I’m not gonna let anything change that. Understand?”
She gurgles softly.
When Reed hauls me to my feet, it’s a blessing to have someone guide me. I’m not sure my feet would work if I weren’t being told where to step.
* * *
Back in my quarters, as soon as the curtain falls into place and Reed’s footsteps fade off, I race to the window. There’s a full cup of water in the well. I pull it out, sip gingerly. Instinct tells me to gulp it down, but I also know it’s likely to be my last clean drink. I should save some for the morning.
I’m taking a final sip when the curtain parts and Reed steps into the room. “I just wanted to say—” He freezes. “What the hell is that?”
I set the cup on the ledge and drop the curtain, as though hiding the inverted well behind it will make it disappear.
He stalks to the window and peers into the pitcher, nose wrinkling. Then he picks up the cup, sniffs the water. No curled lip, no fowl expression. Slowly, he dips a finger in and tastes the liquid, his eyes locked with mine. He swallows. A muscle ticks in the side of his jaw. He’s going to dump it. My final drink of clean water and he’s going to pour it out. As though I haven’t lost enough already. As if my world isn’t coming apart at the seams.
“Don’t,” I beg softly. “Please. I won’t have any starting tomorrow.”
Time sticks, and for what feels like an eternity he stands there glaring at me. Then he places the cup on the ledge and heads for the door without another word.
“What will you tell him?” I ask as he reaches the curtain.
He pauses. “Nothing. Like you said, you won’t have any more starting tomorrow.” He brushes the curtain aside and slips from the room. I hear him say something to the guards on duty; then his boots fade off.
I grab the cup and gulp down the drink before Reed can change his mind and return to toss it. The water is warm and glorious. As it wets my mouth and slides down my throat, I remind myself that what Reed did was not born of compassion. When my traps yield catch, I killed them immediately. It is kinder that way. Less suffering. Reed granted me a drink, then left me in the cage to perish slowly.
I crawl onto the mattress and try to sleep, but all I can see is the blade coming across Ma’s neck, her limp body falling from the dam. My brain jumps ahead in time, showing me the others, leaving out no details, not even for poor Bay.
Although I can’t afford to waste water, the tears break loose. I come apart, sobbing into the mattress, the knowledge that I am going to fail my pack unbearably heavy. Just as I failed Indie, just as I failed Ma. I don’t have the power to save them.
Chapter Fourteen
The fields are blistering hot.
I joined the workers at sunrise, unceremoniously. I was allowed to bring what I could wear, so I put it all on, ensuring that nothing could be confiscated. Now, as the sun nears its peak in the sky, I harvest beans with my goggles on to avoid the dust that is kicked up by the shuffling workers. The back of my neck aches. Even with my jacket collar flipped up, I can’t escape being cooked.
To my right, Pewter keeps her attention on the crop. To my left, Brooke does the same. I can’t avoid talking about it any longer. “I’m so sorry,” I blurt out. “I’m so sorry about Marin.” They just stare at me with glassy eyes, blinking.
“Who’s Marin?” Pewter asks. It is the only thing she’s said to me all day. Like all the other workers, she is focused on filling her basket, her fingers picking and plucking, the plant leaves rustling as she moves through the row.
“What do you mean, who’s Marin? My ma. Marin. The General executed her.”
Pewter blinks at me.
“Didn’t any of you notice she’s missing?” I turn around, waiting for someone to confirm it. Maybe their grief is too immense to discuss things right now. Maybe throwing themselves into the work is all that’s holding them together.
I drop a handful of beans into my basket and angle my head toward Brooke. “Who’s the oldest in our pack now?” I whisper. “Is it Alder or Vee?”
“Get back to work.”
Worry gnaws at me. “You know who they are, don’t you? Alder and Vee?”
She remains quiet.
“Your daughter. Where is she?”
Brooke glances about briefly, then frowns.
“Do you even remember her name?”
A crease appears in her brow. “Be loyal to the cause . . .” She studies me, searching for my name, but she can’t place that either. Eventually she just shrugs and goes back to harvesting.
Whatever’s in the water isn’t merely numbing the General’s workforce, it’s chipping away at their minds, their memories, their very souls.
I hope Ma had forgotten me by the time they dragged her onto the dam. I hope she looked at my face and saw a stranger framed in the nursery window. I can’t bear to think that she died knowing her daughter was the one to forsake her.
* * *
By noon, I have sweated through my undershirt and am feeling faint. Heat rash speckles my palms, but when the wagon comes with the water, I’ve harvested only enough to earn one ladle. I accept the drink, nod my thanks, and hold the water in my mouth until I’m back in the fields and out of the guards’ sight. There, I drop to my knees and spit it all out. I watch the soil soak it up, my throat dry and scratchy.
After the water wagon leaves, we’re instructed to shift from harvesting to weeding, tossing anything we pull into our baskets so they can be dried out and used for textiles or fuel. The surface dirt is bone-dry, but when I pull my first weed, damp earth clings to the roots. The General must have the fields watered in the evening, when the workers are back at the shanties, spent from the day and dreaming whatever fogged dreams the drugged water induces. If I can sneak out to the fields then . . . If I capture runoff from those watering sessions . . .
Shouts from the dam pull me from my thoughts, and I look up to see a convoy rolling into Bedrock. I push to my feet for a better view. At first I think it’s some division of the General’s army, men back from pillaging another poor settlement, new workers for the fields in tow. But the procession of wagons is mismatched—some built entirely of worn wood, others part Old World rover—and no one with the unit wears a ram-skull mask or the Loyalist black. In fact, the people with this convoy look as disheveled as those from any settlement in the wastes. Slapdash goggles are pulled over their eyes, threadbare scarves wrapped around their necks and noses. I can make out woven wool shirts and the occasional leather jacket. Harnessed mules tow the wagons, whose payload is hidden beneath sheets that are pulled over the bed. Ropes and braided rags cinch the fabric down tightly, but by the bulking shape, it’s obvious that there’s a lot of whatever they’re moving.
The dark-skinned driver at the front of the procession cracks a whip, guiding the way down Bedrock’s dirt street. Gunners are positioned around the bed of each wagon, long barrels resting against their shoulders now that they’ve entered Bedrock and left the dangerous wastes behind. A handful even hold bows, the quivers slung across their backs.