We cannot even begin to speculate on what’s happened here, which doesn’t keep Dalton from demanding answers. But our captors are not talking.

We enter the village at gunpoint. The First Settlement is composed of about ten cabins, spread over a couple of acres. As people emerge from homes, the palpable weight of their rage pulses through the air.

If I had any idea what they thought we’d done, I’d have fought our captors. Allowing a dangerous Rockton resident to escape was one thing. We could have handled that, though. Made promises. Made apologies. Made concessions. Now . . . ?

I glance at Dalton. His face is taut, gaze straight ahead, jaw set as if he’s outraged, but the vein throbbing in his neck tells me he is afraid.

“In here.” One of our captors prods Dalton toward a dilapidated building.

When I see Harper, I try to catch her eye, not accusing but confused, concerned. I gesture that I would like to speak to her, but she’s pretending not to see me. She circles to a man behind us and says something. He shakes his head. She gestures my way and I think it’s at me, but then I realize she’s pointing at Storm. The man shakes his head and reaches to squeeze her thin shoulder, but she throws him off and stomps away.

Dalton’s captor prods him again.

“Yeah, no,” he says. “I’ll wait here for Edwin.”

“You aren’t talking to Edwin.” The man nods at me. “She is.”

“Fine, then I’ll sit my ass down right here and wait.”

The man points at the building. “You will wait there. She will wait at Edwin’s.”

Dalton opens his mouth, but I shake my head. He hesitates, and I know this makes him nervous—it makes me nervous, too—but we cannot give them any excuse for using those weapons to force us to obey.

Dalton stalks off toward the building, muttering the whole way. Our captors prod Wallace to follow Dalton. I let them take me to Edwin’s place. They open the door, and I walk in, as calmly as I can, as if this is an obvious misunderstanding that I know will be cleared up.

Edwin isn’t there.

I turn to ask where he is, but they’ve shut the door behind me.

I take a deep breath and sit on the floor. Storm lowers herself beside me, leaning in hard, panting with nervous tension. I pat her and tell her it will be okay, it will all be okay.

I hope it will be okay.

I’ve been there about ten minutes when I hear a noise in the next room. The door swings opens, and Harper stands there, an open window behind her, a knife in her hand.

“Put that down,” I say.

“I just came here to talk.”

“Good. Then you don’t need a knife.”

She shakes her head. I ask her one more time. Then I take it. She doesn’t see that coming. She tries to slash, but I already have her by the forearm. I squeeze just tight enough to hold her steady. Then I pluck the knife from her hand. When I release her, she swings at me. I grab her arm, pin it behind her back, march her to the open window and drop the knife through it.

When I let her go, she backs off, rubbing her wrist.

“That hurt,” she says, and there’s genuine shock in her voice.

“You attacked. I defended.”

She eyes me as if this calm response isn’t what she expects. “It was my knife. I was defending myself.”

“One shout will bring the guard to your aid. I only put your knife outside. I didn’t keep it.”

She’s still eyeing me. She says, again, “That hurt,” and there’s a tremor of outrage, as if I should be ashamed of myself hurting a kid. But like she said the other day, she is not a child, not out here.

“What’s going on?” I say.

I’m waiting for the look of worry, of guilt. The one that says they’ve made her blame us. Someone has forced her to make a false statement. Someone she respects. Someone she fears.

I’m waiting for her to apologize. To say she had no choice.

When she says, “I told the truth,” my heart sinks. But I am not surprised.

“The truth?” I say.

“Eric killed them. I was there.”

I could blame post-traumatic stress. Confusion. Even fear.

Instead, I say, “Why?”

“Why what?”

Now I’m the one eyeing her. Sizing her up. There’s no point in Harper coming here to talk.

“What do you want?” I say.

I follow her gaze to Storm. “No.”

“Yes.”

“She’s town property.”

“She’s yours,” Harper says. “I heard Eric say that he got her for you.”

“Are you sure?”

Her face scrunches up. “That he got her for you?”

“No, that you overheard it. When? As you were running for your life? After Eric killed three of your people?”

“I want her.”

She says it as if this is a simple matter. As if she is indeed a child, one too young to have realized that a wish is not a command or an obligation.

But I’m not sure it is childlike to her. Out here, it’s a very normal thing, at least for some of the settlers and probably all of the hostiles. I want this thing. You have it. So I will take it from you.

I remember the young man—Albie—checking out our horses. Suggesting where we might camp, and Dalton being sure not to camp there.

You have this thing that I want, and I will take it from you, and that’s nothing personal. It’s just the way it is.

Harper steps toward Storm, who leans against me, whining.

The girl looks at me. “Tell Eric that you’re giving me the dog, and I’ll tell Edwin I made a mistake.”

“Little late for that, isn’t it?” I say.

“What?”

“How exactly do you tell him you made a mistake? Say that you hallucinated Eric murdering your people? Or that the event was so traumatic you forgot what happened and made something up? How will that make you seem?”

I see her mental gears whirring madly as she looks for the trap here. There must be a trap. Why else would I ever advise her not to rescind her story?

“You want a new husband,” she says.

“What?”

She nods, satisfied. “You have met someone new in your town, and you want him. Or you never wanted Eric, but he is the leader, and you cannot say no to the leader.”

“Yes,” I say. “He is the leader. My boss. But if he’s gone . . .”

“You want his job.”

As she says that, I get a glimpse into the woman behind the girl’s mask. When she speculates I simply want a new lover, she is dismissive. Now, as I claim it is ambition, respect flashes in her eyes.

“Can you help me?” I say.

“For the dog?”

I nod. “For the dog.”

“What do I need to do?”

“Just stick to your story. Exactly to it. Can you do that?”

She nods.

“Tell me everything you told Edwin.”