I lift my eyes, squinting through the waves of heat rising up from the desert floor, and again, I remember the words Mom used to say to me, her hands stroking the soft layers of my hair, across the tattoo she branded onto my skin when I was young, her eyes tilted to the evening sky.
Don’t look back. You’re not going that way.
Cricket, and the boy whose name I don’t yet know, lead me away from the water tower toward a line of trees I can see in the distance: oaks growing stunted and short in the heat.
But soon we’ll be in their shade. I can almost feel their shadowed limbs reaching out for me, calling me close into their cool shelter, wind hissing through their limbs. It’s all I can think of.
The boy hands Cricket a metal canteen—dented on one side, hanging from a leather strap—and she unscrews the lid, taking a long, messy gulp, water splashing down her chin, before handing it off to me. I drink greedily too, letting it spill down my throat—I’ve never been so thirsty in all my life—and the cool water plummets into my stomach like a stone, making me shiver.
Cricket takes the empty canteen and slings it over her shoulder, and I hope there’s more where we’re going, an unending lake of clear, snow-melted water that I can sink down into, mouth open wide. Because my throat still feels as dry and crisp as dead autumn leaves.
With the sun blazing over us, the boy walks several paces ahead, watchful—eyes scanning the desert—but we seem to be the only shadows stupid enough to be out in this heat. No sign of the men behind us. No sign of anything ahead, either.
“The others are staying behind?” I ask Cricket, glancing back at the water tower, where twenty or so figures remain in the shadow cast down by the tower, and about five or six others positioned above on the platform.
“They’re guarding it,” Cricket answers, her shoulders bent slightly forward, like she’s preparing for a long, miserable walk. “Wecharge a fee for anyone passing through who needs water. During the market, we can make a lot of coin.” She scratches at the shaved side of her head, the stubble itchy, then makes a motion with her eyes to the boy ahead of us. “That’s Noah.”
I let my eyes watch him a moment, the assured pace of each step, the curves of his shoulders, muscular, strong—someone who’s no stranger to hard work, of one kind or another. And he carries something in his hands, a thing he keeps turning over and over. A coin maybe, but larger. The dulled metal barely catching the sunlight. “He’s in charge?” I ask.
She lifts a shoulder. “More or less. He’s been around longer, and can make decisions faster than the rest of us.”
The sun makes ripples of the landscape, a trick that almost looks like water, and I wipe at my eyes, sweat dripping from every curve and shallow place of my skin.
“What’s your name?” Cricket asks finally, as if it’s only just now occurred to her.
I feel the tightness gather at the top of my throat. Telling her the truth feels like giving something up, revealing a part of who I am.Who I really am.But they’ve already seen the tattoo; my name feels trivial now. “Vega.”
Ahead of us, Noah turns his head, casting me a sidelong look. Like the name means something to him. But says nothing.
We continue on in silence, my name the last word hanging in the air between us, until at last we reach the shade of the oaks, and the relief is so sudden that I want to press my palms to the cold ground, feel it against my scorched skin, and weep. But Noah and Cricket don’t slow their pace.
“How much farther?” I ask, eyes wanting to sink closed, to rest, to dream of places that are anywhere but here.
“Another hour or so,” Cricket answers, and her eyes look weary finally, like she, too, is in need of sleep. Like the hours we spent running across the desert are now showing in the steady lines of her face.
We move deeper into the trees, and the landscape becomes uneven, steep in places, and I scramble unbalanced over rocky outcroppings and fallen trees. I’m exhausted and clumsy, my head pounding. But I need more than sleep, more than water…. I need someplace that feels safe, where my heart can slow and my eyes can stop flashing over my shoulder, flinching at every shadow that skitters and flashes and moves.
An hour passes, then another.
It begins to rain, lightly at first, but then it falls in great, gasping sheets. Like the rain is being tossed down by the clouds, trying to drown us, carry us away. I tilt my face to the sky and hold out my tongue, letting the drops cool my skin, swallowing what I can. But after another few minutes, my clothes are soaked, my hair dripping, and I wish I was in the wagon, could sink into the back and pull Mom’s quilt over my head.
The ground turns muddy, puddles forming in shallow places, but the air is still warm, sticky. After another hour, day becomes evening, and Noah looks back at Cricket and me, rain streaming across his face and eyelashes—he looks even more dark and unsettling in the downpour, and it stirs a knot in my chest. “We’re nearly there,” he says, his voice a sharp pin drop in my ears.
Cricket doesn’t reply, just keeps her head down, away from the rain.
I don’t see the place until we’re nearly upon it.
A barn.
Tall and rectangular, rainwater streaming from the roof. “What is this place?” I ask.
“It used to be a town called Winnett Springs. But everything burned down. Only the barn is left now,” Cricket tells me through chattering teeth, all of us soaked through.
“You live here?”
“For now,” Noah answers, moving on up ahead, and pulling open one of the huge barn doors only wide enough for us all to slip inside without letting in the rain.
Candles throw light up the wide, slatted walls, and the whole place smells of hay and manure and woodsmoke. It’s cavernous, hollow-feeling, with a loft perched high above us, and rain dripping through several holes in the slackened roof. I had hoped for a place that would feel safe, shelter from the rain, but it’s barely any drier than standing outside in the storm.
