“He’d been bitten.”
“Did you do it, or Three-High?”
Smoke looked away, and that was her answer. Smoke was strong that way-he knew that death was a mercy for an infected citizen, that otherwise the fever would begin within hours, and the victim would twitch and babble and pick at his own skin and his flesh hunger would grow. And so Smoke gave the gift of death: swift and sure.
Cass nodded, tears stinging her eyes. But there would be time later to wonder how much another death had cost Smoke, whether it played upon his soul and poisoned his dreams. For now, there were the living to be tended.
She entered the cottage, the others following close behind. Feo knelt next to his grandmother’s bed, sobbing quietly. Sam crouched next to him, his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Francie stood at the head of the bed, her arms folded, her face tired. When she saw Cass, she frowned and shook her head, and Cass knew the old woman was dead.
He’d lost everything, then. The last family he would ever know had died today.
Cass couldn’t bear it. She turned on Dor, her face tight with anguish, trying to find the right words. But Smoke put a hand around hers and stepped between them.
“The guy…the one outside the fence-that was his uncle,” he said quietly.
Dor nodded heavily, as though the worst news had lost the power to surprise him. For a moment, silhouetted in the sunlight streaming through the door, he looked all too human, his shoulders sagging and his hands hanging useless at his sides. “The boy can stay,” he said, and then left without another word.
Cass watched him go, her heart quickening, the possibilities flashing through her mind. But as they knelt on the bare wood floor, Feo burrowed into Sam’s arms, and Sam-barely more than a boy himself-held on.
So that’s how it was to be. In that moment the small idea that had been taking shape in Cass’s mind-her and Smoke and
Smoke and Cass left quietly, hand in hand. Outside it was shaping up to be another warm autumn day. The air was fragrant with the smell of kaysev cakes frying on a griddle and they walked hand in hand back to the tent. Ruthie would wake soon, and they would take her to the clearing for breakfast, and it would be all right.
Later, Cass and Ruthie would go to the gardens to pick mint leaves. They would boil water and make a big batch of tea in the plastic pitcher, and Cass would add a few spoonfuls from her precious stash of sugar. They would carry the tea down to the officers’ quarters, and it would be a gift for mourning and new beginnings both.
Sophie Littlefield
SOPHIE LITTLEFIELD grew up in rural Missouri and attended college in Indiana. She worked in technology before having children, and was lucky enough to stay home with them while they were growing up. She writes mysteries and thrillers for kids and adults, and lives in Northern California.
Visit Sophie online at www.SophieLittlefield.com or follow @SWLittlefield on Twitter.
