He steps back and pulls a small bottle gourd from his pocket. “I brought you something.”
My lips part. “What?”
“Krim sent you home without rations.” He shakes the gourd, sloshing its contents. “Have mine.”
“But—”
“What you did today was outstanding. Heroic acts need to be rewarded, not punished. The revolution depends on brave soldiers.” Ryce pauses and seems to look into my soul. “Like you.”
My throat dries, and butterflies thrash their wings against the lining of my stomach, urging me to accept his gift. Ryce’s gaze turns expectant.
“Thanks.” I take the gourd, pop its cork, and place its opening to my lips. Cool, sweet bliss slides down my throat and moistens my parched mucous membranes. My chest vibrates with an appreciative moan. Water after a hot day in the sun is sweeter than chocolate, sweeter than the ripest fruit, but nothing is sweeter than Ryce Wintergreen watching me drink.
I pull the gourd from my lips and gulp. “Here, you have some.”
He takes the water and sips. “I heard that the guard was still unconscious when they carried him away. What did you use?”
“Mandragon berries,” I reply.
“Deadly?” He raises a brow.
I shake my head. “Apothecaries use them in sleeping draughts, but the darkest berries at the top of the tree are the most potent. Nobody buys them because of their unpredictable effects.”
He nods, seeming to understand.
Dad’s the expert on medicinal plants. When he’s not working, he’s gathering herbs or tending to his micro gardens in shaded spots around Rugosa. He maintains them with wastewater he collects from our house and from neighbors who he pays with produce.
I still go out with Dad, tend to plants and gather herbs that grow wild in fields and around ancient trees. But it was Mom who taught me to use the blowgun. In the Barrens, hunting was the only way to survive.
Ryce finishes his drink and asks, “May I see your weapon?”
I pull my blowgun from the deep pocket of my skirt. It’s twelve inches, made of bamboo, and the smallest in my collection. I hand it to Ryce, who weighs it in his hand with his brows raised. Sometimes, it’s hard to believe that something that looks like a drinking straw can kill.
Before I can show him my quiver and poisoned darts, a desert runner swoops down from the sky. Ryce beckons for it to come close. The bird lands, curling its talons around his forearm.
Desert runners are reddish-brown birds with long, muscular legs that make excellent meat. They hunt with beaks as sharp as daggers and can run faster than a solar jeep. The Red Runners raise them from eggs and train them to pass messages. This desert runner has a red talon, which is a summons to headquarters.
Ryce raises his brow. “Mother probably wants to congratulate you herself.”
After I wave goodbye to Sharqi and her chicks, Ryce and I walk to the furthest end of the yard, where the cacti stand only knee-high. I’ve never been to the headquarters of the Red Runners, and my heart beats twice as fast as our hurried steps.
The sun burns bright in the cloudless sky. In a few hours, it will set, and the wind will cool. We pass through the narrow patch of land that separates our garden from the Braeburns’, neighbors who supply Dad with wastewater.
“Could you teach me to use the blowpipe?” Ryce asks in a low voice. “A weapon like that could be vital for stealth missions.”
Curiosity burns through my insides. I had never thought of the Red Runners infiltrating enemy territory to perform covert operations. I conjure up images of old movies played on OasisVision, relics from the world before bombs and drought and ecological disasters.
As we step onto the dirt road that winds around the outskirts of Rugosa, I whisper, “What kinds of missions?”
Ryce raises a brow, and I place my fingers over my lips. I know better than to ask that kind of question out in public.
A stagecoach trundles past, pulled by a pair of giant pronghorns. They’re seven-foot-tall antelopes covered in brown-and-beige zebra stripes and grow two-pronged horns on kangaroo-like faces. Pronghorns can outrun everything from desert runners to horses.
At the back of the stagecoach sit two-dozen dirt-covered Harvester men, who reek of manure. They are soil builders, who prepare the desert for crops. It’s smelly, back-breaking drudgery, and the more arable land they create, the more Phangloria expands.
I give Ryce an apologetic shrug for asking such a delicate question outside. Even when nobody seems to pay attention, someone is always listening.
Ryce takes my hand as we cross the stretch of dirt track that leads to the cornfield. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You’re not to mention what you see to anyone, is that understood?”
I nod, and we continue through the expanse of corn. The lines of stalks stretch on forever, a lush, forest green with a smattering of golden cornsilk, and their tall leaves form a shady canopy. We continue in silence through the field, and my pulse thuds with the promise of adventure.
Hundreds of feet ahead stands a baobab tree with a trunk thick enough to fill the entire house. Dark-limbs protrude from its crown-like tentacles, which twist and split into branches and the thinnest twigs. That baobab tree has been struck by lightning so many times that the earth around it has turned barren.
“Don’t be alarmed.” Ryce lets go of my hand, approaches the tree, slips into its hollow, and disappears.
“Ryce?” I try to keep the tremble from my voice.
He doesn’t answer, and I squeeze my eyes shut and blow out a long breath through my nostrils. This is a test. Ryce probably wants to judge my worth to see if I can be trusted with a stealth mission. Wiping my damp palms on the sides of my skirt, I glance over my shoulder and follow him inside.
Darkness engulfs my senses, and an electrical charge
