Pity scanned the horizon with the rifle’s scope.

“How much longer you gonna do that?” Finn twisted a wrench, tightening something on the Ranger’s frame. “I don’t know what you’re expecting to see. Rawley forgot about us the minute he went off duty. Your brothers will think you’re hiding out with me. And even when everyone realizes we’re gone, how d’you think they’re gonna find us?”

“There’s more to worry about than my father.”

“Sure,” said Finn. “Those deer we saw a few miles back looked like the menacing sort.”

“There’s no harm in being careful.” She did another sweep.

Her initial elation was receding, leaving her unable to shake the itch of pursuit. They had left the main road almost immediately, the Ranger taking on the grassland with faultless mechanical grace. Here and there they had passed the skeletons of structures, the cracked remnants of old roads, but mainly the terrain had been flat, repetitive. At dusk they had made camp near a line of trees following a stream.

“Let’s go to Columbia first,” Pity said, changing the subject. “Just to see it. My mother used to say she’d take me there someday.”

“Really? I’m surprised she’d want to go anywhere near Columbia.” Finn tossed the wrench back into her bag. “Given who some people think she was.”

“Stop it. There’s no secret there. Everyone knew she was a sniper, and if she hadn’t been fertile they would have strung her up with the Patriots they tried for war crimes. Anything else is old gossip.”

“Gossip or not,” said Finn, “some folks swear she was a Reaper.”

“They say that about anyone who is a half decent shot.”

“And you think she would have told you if she was part of the deadliest, most hunted squad of assassins in the war?”

“Yes.” Pity lowered the rifle. “I do.”

Did you kill people?

Pity didn’t remember if it was the first time she had asked the question, but it was the time that stuck in her mind. The war had been over for a decade by then yet as ever present as the harvest, visible in scars and missing limbs and endless, haunted stares.

To her credit, her mother had replied honestly. Yes.

How many?

Enough. At first, Pity hadn’t thought she’d say more. Her mother had been quiet about the war, saying little more than she had guarded supply depots until near the end, when the conflict had crested to such ferocity that fighting was unavoidable.

I tried not to kill anyone who didn’t need it, her mother had continued, words sober, shared at a time when she still held the advantage in her battle with the drink. But when an entire battle came down to a moment—to when taking one life might turn the tide and save a hundred—well… that’s when a decision needs to be made.

“By all accounts, the Reapers were vicious, unrestrained,” Pity said to Finn. “My mother was a lot of things, but she wasn’t that kind of killer.”

Finn shrugged. “Columbia it is.”

Pity raised the rifle again and sighted the empty bean can she had set up two hundred yards off. Its contents simmered over the fire next to her.

“What?” said Finn.

“What do you mean ‘what’?”

“Something is still bothering you.”

Pity steadied the rifle. “It’s nothing.”

“Liar. You tell me.”

She sighed. “What currency we’ve got between us isn’t going to last long. We’ve got no contacts and no official transfers. There’s always need for a good mechanic, but what am I gonna do? I kept house and worked in the dairy sometimes. There are no cows to milk in the cities.”

“I’m no expert,” Finn said, “but that doesn’t look like a cow’s udder in your hands.”

The bean can floated in the crosshairs. “There are no walls to walk in the cities. And I’m not joining the military. That doesn’t leave too many options.”

Finn rolled her eyes. “Serendipity Scupps, whatever you find can’t be much worse than what you left behind, right? So stop worrying and—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What?”

“Scupps. I don’t ever want to hear that name again.” She thought for a moment. “My mother’s name was Jones. I can get a new name along with a new life, can’t I?”

Finn gave an approving nod. “I suppose you can. Serendipity Jones… Can’t say I hate it.”

Pity repeated the name in her head as she tightened her finger on the trigger. Briefly, it was almost like her mother stood behind her, as she’d done years ago.

Inhale, aim. Exhale, shoot.

She pulled the trigger. The can flew off the rock and disappeared in the grass.

The world turned from light to dark as they ate. Stars appeared, and when the chill settled in, they huddled back-to-back beneath blankets, staring at the endless pinpricks of light.

“Pretty,” said Finn.

“Mmm-hmm.” Beneath Pity’s pillow was the hard, comforting outline of her mother’s guns.

Finn shifted, turning over so that she spoke to the back of Pity’s neck. “When we get to the cities… we’re gonna be okay, y’know? We’ll figure it out together.”

Pity turned as well. The fire had burned so low that Finn was hardly more than a darker piece of the night, but Pity could sense the weight of her and pick the faint scent of machine oil out of the air. “I’m sorry to fuss. I know we will. Like you said, can’t be any worse than what we left behind, right?”

“Right. G’night.”

“’Night.” Pity pulled the blanket tighter and pushed her fearful thoughts away. They didn’t matter, not right then. Because as she felt Finn’s warmth beside her, listened to her friend’s breaths grow slower and more rhythmic with sleep, she couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so hopeful.

Icy water tickled Pity’s ankles as she dipped the mouth of the canteen into the stream. The midmorning sun warmed her shoulders and danced across the ripples as a faint breeze sent the leaves whispering. Earlier, she had woken to a sunrise that felt unfamiliar, like a sight she had never seen before. It had taken her a while to figure out why.

Pity closed her eyes. This is what it is, she thought, to be outside the cage.

This was what it felt like to be free.

A twig cracked.

She opened her eyes and spun, drawing her gun in the same movement.

Downstream, a turkey strutted out of the brush. It took a few jagged steps, stopped, and considered Pity.

She considered it right back.

“You’d make a good meal, Mr. Turkey.” She aimed for the loose red flesh of the bird’s neck. “But Finn’s probably done packing camp by now, and I don’t feel like taking the time to dress you.” She slid the gun back into her holster.

On the shore, she pulled on her boots and started up the steep bank of the stream. The thick undergrowth tugged at her clothes as she navigated it, retracing her steps until she reached where the trees thinned.

Mid-step, she froze.

Something was different.

When Pity left the camp, Finn had been whistling a cheerful tune that didn’t quite match the song it was supposed to be. Now that sound was gone, replaced by one she knew too well: engines.

Motorcycles. She dropped the canteens and ducked into the brush. More than one.

Was it possible? Could her father have found them already? No, he wouldn’t be back at the commune yet. Had Rawley raised the alarm, then? Her throat tightened, but it still didn’t ring true—she and Finn had taken a wandering route, and the Ranger left hardly more trail than a bobcat.

She inched forward through the brush, a single thought pounding in time with her heart.

Finn.

By the time she reached the edge of the tree line, another distinct rumble could be heard. Fifty paces away, beyond where the Ranger sat, a truck rattled up to join the two motorcycles that flanked their camp. A man jumped from its cab and joined the dismounted riders. Beside the remains of the fire, Finn stood, stiff-backed. She took a few cautious paces backward as the men approached.

Trembling, Pity cursed silently. Her rifle leaned against the side of the Ranger.

“Mornin’!” one of the men called out, his voice carrying to where Pity hid.

She inspected the trio. They were young but with a coarse, dirty look to them, the kind of rough that didn’t wash off. Not commune workers, then, and she didn’t see any CONA patches on their clothing. All three were armed, the riders with handguns on their belts. As for the truck driver, Pity didn’t see a gun, but strapped across his chest were half a dozen grenades. She eyed the truck.

Metal scraps. Wiring. A pile of mismatched tires.

Scroungers.

They could be looking to trade, she told herself. Being armed didn’t mean anything out here. But she remained crouched as Finn responded to the greeting, her words too faint to make out.

The men looked at one another. One pointed at the rifle and said something. Finn started for the gun, but he put himself between her and it, a split-wound grin on his face.

Pity’s heart slid into her stomach. Her free hand drew. Scroungers, maybe, but something about them was old-milk sour. She gauged the distance between her and the men, cursing herself again for leaving the rifle behind. With it, she could have sent warning shots at the intruders—or worse maybe, if they refused to take the hint. But this far away, and with three against one, her pistols were a chancy proposition at best.

What do I do?

If she broke cover now, they’d be on her in an instant. And for all that she would have joined the commune’s defenses in a heartbeat, she had only ever shot at targets, never a live human. Her palms began to sweat as the sick sensation in her gut spread.

“Go on!” Finn spoke loud enough for Pity to hear this time. “Take it and go. I ain’t got anything else worth stealing.” She waved dismissively and set her hands on her hips, back still to Pity.

She knows I’m close. A line of sweat slid from her forehead to the bridge of her nose. Why hasn’t she called for help? She isn’t so much as glancing in this direction.

Realization bloomed in her like a frost.

They think Finn’s alone. They have no idea I’m here.

And Finn was trying to keep it that way.

The grinning rider grabbed the rifle. When Finn took an angry step toward him, the man closest to her drew his handgun. He grabbed her arm and twisted, shoving her to her knees. She went stone-still as he shoved the muzzle against her temple.

“You stay right where you are, now.”

Pity read the words on his lips as much as she heard them. Her muscles screamed to move, but she felt no more mobile than the surrounding trees. A primal direction rooted her, a fear-soaked sense of preservation.

Don’t… Her thoughts were hard to hold on to, the pounding blood in her veins drowning them out. Wait. Think. Don’t toss away what advantage Finn’s bought you.

Now that Finn was partially turned toward the trees, Pity could see her eyes running back and forth over the brush, blank fear painted on her features.

I’m here, Pity thought, jaw aching with desperation to cry out. Finn, I’m here.

An idea struck her. She raised her gun, angling it so that sunlight winked off the silver plating.

I’m here.

Finn locked on the signal. Pity flashed one more time and dropped her arm, before the scroungers could take notice.

“Anything good?” Finn’s guard called to his companions, who had begun rooting through the Ranger.

The driver pulled Finn’s tools from the vehicle and tossed them to the ground. “Nothin’ that’ll buy you the moon, but not bad.” He straightened, a cross air about him. “Finish up and come help, would you? We’re not doin’ all the work this time!”

Finish—

Terror prickling her skin, Pity snapped back to Finn. Her friend stared directly at her.

“For sayin’ you do all the work, you two sure never get your hands dirty!”

Move! The word screamed through Pity’s mind, but her body refused. Every inch of her felt carved from ice. In her hand, the gun she could pick the petals from a daisy with remained half raised, heavy as a concrete block.

Finn’s gaze never left her. But the fear in her eyes was gone, replaced by soft resignation. As Pity watched, her head slid back and forth once, the movement barely perceptible. Her mouth formed a single word.

Run.

Pity ripped her other gun from its holster.

A moment later, a shot cracked the morning into shards.