“Don’t say shit like that.”
Joe shrugged. “Get used to it. That’s how it’s going to be from here on out.”
“Damn it.” Devin wrapped his arms around Joe and held tight. Maybe New America was going to treat Joe that way, but Devin would never buy into that bigotry again. And he wasn’t going to let Joe get weighed down by it, either.
Little by little, Joe relaxed in Devin’s arms until they were propping each other up and Devin felt safe and secure. He nuzzled his face against Joe’s temple. “Can I tell you my good stuff now?” The ghost of a grin brushed against Devin’s chest, so he went on. “I found out my last name. My people. Who I belong to.”
Joe stiffened. “You belong to me.”
“I know I do. It’s just, I didn’t think I had a family, and maybe they’re dead, but...” Devin had trouble putting the feeling into words, the way knowing about himself settled his stomach and calmed his worries. “It’s —”
“I get it,” Joe said. He kissed Devin’s cheek and pulled away. “This helps you define who you are, where you fit. We should get back to the others.” He walked almost to the edge of the trees before turning back, those eyes sadder than ever. “I’m happy for you.”
It had been a long time since Joe had last lied to him. Devin’s stomach turned to stone.
***
As he walked down the highway with the others, Flix examined the smooth white candle in his hand. Long and tapered, maybe an inch across at the base, it was more luxury than he’d probably ever hold again, and he couldn’t bring himself to waste it.
He bumped Devin’s arm. “Can I borrow your knife?”
Devin hesitated. “What for?”
Flix could figure what Devin thought. What they all thought. That he was sinking under his grief. That he couldn’t manage without Marcus. Half the time, he thought they were right. This, though, he could do.
“I want to cut down the candle.”
Devin winced into the setting sun and put his hands to his head. “You should talk to Joe.”
“It’s your knife.” Flix fingered the handle where the knife was strapped to Devin’s thigh. That bastard Sanders had stolen the big Bowie knife, but Joe had got it back after Sanders was dead. After Marcus was dead.
“He has a better one for it,” Devin said. “Mine’s too big.”
The Flix he used to be would have made a joke about the size of Devin’s knife, but this Flix couldn’t work up the life it would take. Someday, maybe. Instead, he nodded and sped up to catch Joe, already hating having to talk to him. The pain and anger hit so much harder when Flix had to see Joe’s face.
He reached Joe and slowed to walk beside him. Gazing at Joe in profile like this, Flix didn’t hurt. He studied Joe’s sculpted cheekbones, plump lips, and hard jaw. Objectively, Flix found him beautiful, still the most stunning face he’d ever seen, even if Flix’s attraction to him had sputtered to nothing but the joke of a memory. He ran his fingertips down the long scar on his own face, grateful that no one, no man offering to pay and no man interested only in beauty, would ever look at him again the way he and so many others had looked at Joe. That sort of admiration meant nothing.
Joe tilted his head and met Flix’s gaze head on.
God, those dark, somber eyes. They screamed Joe’s guilt. It wasn’t like Flix was mad, not like Joe thought. He didn’t blame Joe, exactly, for Marcus’s death. Joe had made a plan, and it had failed. And Joe had held Flix down, prevented him from getting to Marcus, in order to keep him safe. Always protecting. Flix had lied that day at the greenhouse when he’d gotten Cadia to give him information. Joe wasn’t the Tin Man or a robot. He considered himself responsible for Marcus’s death. Nothing Flix had to say would change that. And seeing Joe’s guilt reminded Flix over and over that Marcus wasn’t there. That’s what made him mad.
“Devin says you have a knife I can use to divide this candle.”
To his credit, Joe didn’t ask why. He wrangled the backpack off his back and dug in a side pocket, withdrawing a small metal and wood item that he handed to Flix.
“See the metal in the middle? That’s the blade. Pull on the grooved area, and it’ll slide out from the wood.”
Flix gripped the warm wooden surface and followed Joe’s instructions. A short, gleaming blade extended from a hinge embedded in the wood. Flix pressed his finger to the edge of the blade. Sharp, but not something that would hack through bone. Not a weapon.
The knife cut smoothly through the candle, though, about two inches below the top. Flix took a few moments to whittle away the wax around the wick of the longer bottom piece, exposing enough of the braided cord to make that portion of the candle useful again. He folded the knife and handed it back to Joe.
From his pocket, Flix extracted the box of matches he’d gotten from one of the backpacks earlier. “I need a minute alone.”
Joe’s expression didn’t change, but his voice came out wrong. “Whatever you need. I’m sorry.”
Joe would know, of course. The guy had a huge brain and a great memory. Last year, the cafeteria cook had made a cupcake. Joe had led the song. Flix counted it another small blessing when all Joe did was blink slowly and yell for the others to catch up. He shooed everyone onward, past Flix, and nodded before walking on.
Flix stopped at the side of the road and knelt over a tiny patch of greenish-gray lichen. So rare to find something alive. He lit the candle. Soft orange flames flickered in the waning daylight. This wasn’t enough, could
