The road, such as it was, wound through what had been farmland—miles of flat terrain gone wild with prairie grass andvolunteer trees. In the distance, the skeleton of a water tower rose against the sky like a metal flower on a very long stem.
“Riot?” Cass’s voice was quieter now. Smaller. “If designations are manufactured... then what am I?”
“You’re Cass.”
“But my body—the heat, the way I—” He stopped, taking in a breath before he started again. “Everything my body does. The way it responds. Someone decided that would happen before I was born.” His fingers were white-knuckled in his lap. “And they didn’t ask.”
“No. They didn’t ask.”
“Oh…”
Riot wanted to pull the car over and gather Cass into his arms and hold him until the shaking in his voice stopped. But they were in the open, in the Static Zone, with potential threats on every horizon, and stopping meant vulnerability. So he did the only thing he could—reached across the center console and took Cass’s hand.
Cass’s fingers curled around his immediately.
“The designations are real,” Riot said. “Whatever made them, they’re part of you now. Part of all of us. The heats, the scents, the way your body works—that’s yours. Nobody gets to tell you it’s sacred or profane or anything else. It’s just yours.”
“Like the circlet,” Cass said.
Riot blinked. “What?”
“The circlet you gave me. It was made by someone. In a shop, or a workshop, with tools and metal. It’s manufactured. But it’s still mine. It’s still beautiful.” He squeezed Riot’s hand. “Maybe that’s the same thing. Maybe something can be made and still be real.”
Riot’s throat constricted in a way that had nothing to do with rut or heat or any biological imperative that a corporation hadengineered into his blood. It was simpler than that. More human than that.
Something can be made and still be real.
He squeezed back and didn’t trust himself to speak.
They lost the first hour to a collapsed bridge.
Sage’s map showed a crossing over what had been a creek and was now a modest river, swollen with spring rain and ambition. The bridge was three concrete slabs and a prayer, two of the slabs having departed for destinations unknown at some point in the last decade. The remaining slab tilted at an angle like it was considering following them.
“I could probably make that,” Riot said, squinting at the gap.
Sage’s walkie: “No.”
“I saidprobably.”
“And I said no. Go north half a mile, there’s a shallow crossing near the old rail line. You’ll get wet. You won’t die.”
“Your faith in me is deeply touching, Sage.”
“My faith in your car’s suspension is nonexistent. Move.”
The shallow crossing was, in fact, shallow—about eighteen inches of muddy water flowing over a bed of gravel and broken concrete. The car lurched through it with the enthusiasm of a dog being given a bath, and Cass lifted his bare feet off the floorboard as brown water seeped in through the door seals.
“Is the car supposed to do that?” Cass asked, watching a small rivulet stream across the floor mat.
“Absolutely not.”
“Oh. Should I be worried?”
“Only if you value dry feet, which—actually, we need to find you shoes.”
Cass wiggled his toes, which were now muddy. He didn’t seem particularly bothered. “I go barefoot during grounding exercises. I always just liked how the grass felt.”
Riot’s mouth twitched. “Practical.”
