“We have lots and lots of fruit,” Selene said. “That’s nature’s candy.”
“Oh.” Chloe seemed deflated. “I wanted real candy.”
Selene decided not to give the little girl a speech about the importance of eating natural foods. It didn’t seem like the right time. Miriam met her gaze for a second then looked away, and an awkward silence descended on the room. Miriam was a lovely young woman, with long, wavy black hair and striking brown eyes, but Selene could read the trauma in her expression. She’d been through something awful.
She’ll never warm up to me, Selene thought. I don’t know these people, and I’m not sure how to talk to them. They certainly aren’t trying to help.
Salvation came from an unusual source. A soft, hoarse voice speaking from the hallway.
“You can make a kind of candy out of fruit.” It was Daniel Cabello, shuffling down the hall with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
“You can?” Chloe said, looking at him with hopeful eyes.
“Sure,” he replied. “You make a fruit puree and spread it on a baking sheet, then you bake it, and it becomes like a fruit rollup.”
“Fruit leather,” Selene said. “That’s what it’s called.”
Chloe looked from Daniel to Selene. “Can we make some right now?”
“How about tomorrow?” Selene said. “You can help me pick out the berries and mash them up. It’ll be a lot of fun.”
“I’ll help too,” Daniel said.
Daniel’s involvement sealed the deal, and Chloe nodded her head. “For breakfast?” she asked.
“Sure, why not?” Selene replied.
She set Sniffy down and was surprised when the girl beckoned the dog with both hands. The little Bichon Frise ran to her like they were old friends, jumped up on the couch, and curled up on her lap.
He’s a good judge of character, Selene thought.
The little girl was petting the dog and smiling when she said, in that peculiar context-free way of young children, “You know, they won’t ever come back from the camp.”
Miriam jerked upright, clearly startled by the comment, and shushed her. “Don’t say such things. It’s not true. We made it out of there, didn’t we?”
“Yes,” Chloe said, “but they’re real mean to other soldiers. They tied that gang up and whipped them until they died. Remember?”
Miriam covered her face with her hands and said, “I’m sorry. I tell Chloe not to speak of these things anymore, but she doesn’t listen to me.”
“It’s okay,” Selene said. “Maybe it helps to talk about it.”
But Chloe shook her head. “No, it doesn’t. It feels really bad.”
11
The smallest of the gray shirts was still too big for Elna. These were clearly the clothes of a rather large man. The pants were worse, but they had a kind of string belt that could be cinched up tight. It looked ridiculous. She was like an overgrown waif, but it would have to do. Archer’s clothes fit snugly only because she left her Marine field uniform on underneath, though it made her seem bulky and weirdly shaped. Judging by the look on her face, she wasn’t particularly fond of the new attire.
Only Malin fit in the clothes, though it wasn’t a particularly good look for him. The drab, ill-made clothes didn’t particularly look good on anyone, and Elna wondered if that wasn’t intentional, a way of making lowly people feel even lower. It seemed like the kind of thing Rod Smith would do.
As they were getting dressed, Prig and Spence stripped off the outer shirts of the uniforms, folded them inside-out to hide the patches, and buried them in the dirt behind a tent. Underneath, both men wore faded green t-shirts in a shade not all that different from the militia guards’ camo. From a distance, they might not draw a lot of attention. At least, Elna could hope.
Elna considered Malin and Archer. Something still wasn’t quite right, even with the camp clothes. They would stand out. At first, she couldn’t pinpoint the reason. Then it came to her. She reached out and dug her hands into the dirt, then ran her fingers through her hair. After that, she took additional dirt and smeared it all over her face and arms.
“People here sit around campfires constantly doing manual labor of one kind or another,” she said. “They’re dirty.”
“Good thinking,” Archer said, as she scooped up a handful of dirt and rubbed it into her face.
Malin followed suit, giving his beard a generous dusting of dirt and rocks, dragging his fingers through his sandy hair.
“To make this work, we have to walk like normal,” Prig said. “Just stroll along like the camp folk. Act like you belong here.”
“Yes,” Elna replied, “but remember the difference. Guards march around like they own the place, but civilians are traumatized.”
“Got it,” Prig said, then to Spence, he added, “I hope to God you left those damned mints behind. If you’ve got a pack stashed on you somewhere, leave them in your pocket. They’ll draw attention.”
Spence gave him a gape-mouthed look of mock offense. “I might’ve brought half a pack, and I might have wrapped it in plastic to keep it dry. Is that so bad, sergeant?”
“Not if you don’t pull it out. Get going.” Prig signaled the others to follow him.
“This is it,” he said. “Elna, keep me moving in the right direction.”
As a final touch to her costume, Elna dragged a lock of dusty hair forward to obscure much of her face. The camp was big enough now that running into Rod Smith would be an unusual stroke of bad luck, but she didn’t want to risk being recognized.
“Okay,” she said. “Act like you’re guarding us, maybe marching us somewhere to work. Try to avoid the campfires, stick to the shadowy places. That’s my suggestion. If you see the main guy—he has a silver star on his cap—try to keep your distance. Maybe he’ll be too busy to notice. As for the other
