Wells’s back muscles burned as he heaved the last barrel of cider into the cart. After days of preparation for the Harvest Feast, his hands were cracked and raw, his feet swollen and aching. Every inch of him was in pain.

And all he could think was: more. More pain. More work. Anything to distract from the dark thoughts that infected his mind like rot. Anything to make him forget.

An Earthborn woman carrying a baby in a sling walked by and smiled at Wells. He nodded politely back, bracing himself as a memory slammed into him like a meteor: Sasha dangling a stalk of wheat for the same baby to play with while the mother hung laundry to dry outside her cabin. Sasha’s black hair swinging forward, green eyes flashing as she teased Wells for being more afraid of babies than of facing Rhodes and his troops in battle.

Wells gritted his teeth and crouched to lift the cart, the painful weight of it obliterating the memory; then he pulled the load down the central village path to the edge of the forest, where the others were milling about with their own cargo.

Red-haired Paul, off duty but still wearing his guard uniform, stood on a boulder, overseeing the Earthborn villagers and Colonists who’d volunteered to bring supplies down to the camp for tonight’s feast. “Okay, folks, I’ve done a thorough patrol of the woods and the coast is clear. But let’s keep things moving, just in case.” He clapped and pointed down the now well-trodden forest path. “Look alive now, and maintain constant awareness.”

Wells watched as a few of the villagers shot Paul bemused looks. Paul was a relatively new arrival, one of the Colonists who’d been on a dropship that had landed off course. His group had made its way to camp just after their bloody battle with a violent faction of Earthborns had ended in a truce.

Wells had vaguely known Paul back on the Colony. Affable and energetic, he’d always struck Wells as more of a dependable, competent soldier than a leader, but things had clearly changed in the past year. Whatever had happened to Paul’s band of survivors between their crash landing and their arrival at camp, it had made him their unofficial captain, and he still assumed that air of responsibility.

“Those of you carrying heavy loads, take care not to strain yourself. If you’re injured, you’ll be an easy target for the enemy.”

Wells rolled his eyes. The dangerous Earthborns were long gone. Paul was just frustrated to have missed all the action, and was overcompensating for it now. Wells had no patience for that, not after he’d witnessed the real price of battle.

Paul frowned slightly. “Graham, what are you doing with that knife? You’re not hunting today.”

“Says who?” Graham said, pulling the long knife from its sheath and twirling it in Paul’s direction. For a moment, Wells considered intervening. Although Graham had settled down over the past few months, Wells would never forget the violent gleam in his eyes when he tried to convince the original hundred to kill Octavia for stealing medicine.

But before Wells could act, Graham snorted, resheathing his knife, and sauntered off, nodding at Eric, who was coming from the other direction.

Eric walked up to Wells. “Need help with this?” He motioned toward the cart. “You don’t want to strain yourself and become an easy target for the enemy,” he said drily.

Wells forced a laugh. “Sure, thanks. I’m just going to grab some more firewood and then I’ll be right behind you.”

He turned and headed for the woodpile behind the far row of cabins, smile dropping away, his jaw heavy with the effort of pretending. Everything about him felt heavy these days, each step weighted with grief. But he kept walking anyway, lifted the ax from its perch, and split logs until he had a sizable pile of wood to carry. He stacked it neatly, ignoring the splinters in his palms, wrapped it all in a back sling, and hoisted it onto his shoulders.

The village had emptied out while he was chopping; they’d all left to join the others to eat and celebrate: the harvest, a fresh start, a bigger community, a newfound peace.

Wells exhaled, his shoulders slumping. The straps of the sling cut through his shirt into his skin as he looked around at the vacant valley. This was good. He’d get to the camp a little late but with plenty of wood for the stoves and the bonfire. He’d stay by the fire and keep it stoked. That would be his job tonight, a perfect excuse to avoid the feast, the speeches, the hundreds of familiar faces, all of them thinking about the people they wished were with them tonight.

Their loved ones back on the Colony… all dead because of Wells.

He’d been the one to loosen the airlock back on the ship, dooming the hundreds of people who couldn’t find seats on the dropships to a slow, suffocating death—his own father, the Chancellor, included. He’d done it to save Clarke, but still, every time he caught sight of his own reflection, he recoiled from it. Every action he took led to destruction and death. If the other Colonists knew what he’d done, they wouldn’t just turn him away from today’s Harvest Feast tables—they’d cast him out of their community entirely. And he would deserve it.

He exhaled again, and felt himself wobbling, suddenly weak. He turned to steady the heavy load on his back and saw that one of the cabins had its door ajar.

It was Max’s cabin. Sasha’s home.

Wells had only known Sasha for a few weeks, but it felt like years of vivid memories had built up during that short time. He’d especially loved being with her in the village. She hadn’t just been the Earthborn leader’s daughter—she’d been part of the community’s life force. She was the one who’d first volunteered to gather intelligence on the hundred, even though the mission put her life in danger. She was the first to lend a helping hand, offer a sympathetic shoulder, or voice an unpopular opinion on behalf of the less powerful. She was useful, she was valued, she was loved, and now she was gone.

Wells dropped his sling, ignoring the clatter of the firewood, and stumbled like a sleepwalker to the doorway. He hadn’t been inside the cabin for nearly a month, avoiding both memories and interactions with the grieving Earthborns for as long as possible. But now there was no one around, and the cabin was drawing him in like a magnet.

His eyes searched the dim interior, taking in a table crammed with scraps of electronics, a small kitchen space, Max’s sleeping quarters… and there, in the back, Sasha’s corner.

Her bed, her quilt, a bundle of dried flowers, a drawing of a bird scratched into the wooden wall. All still there.

“I couldn’t bring myself to move any of it,” came a deep, gravelly voice behind Wells.

He turned to see Max standing a foot away, peering past him with an inscrutable expression. His beard was neatly trimmed, his best clothes neatly darned, all ready for his official role at tonight’s festivities. But right now he didn’t look like the leader of the Earthborns and a member of the new, united Council. He looked like a wounded man—a father still in the freshest wave of grief.

“She drew that bird when she was five, you know. I thought it was pretty good for that age. For any age.” He let out a little laugh. “Maybe in the old world, she could have been an artist.”

“She could have been a lot of things,” Wells said softly.

Max nodded, then pressed a hand against the wall of the cabin for balance, as if something inside of him had just cracked.

I shouldn’t be here, Wells thought, but before he could make an excuse to leave, Max straightened and walked into the cabin, motioning for Wells to follow.

“I prepared a few words to start the feast, but of course, I left them all the way back here,” Max said, riffling through his makeshift desk for a little scrap of paper crammed with scribbled words. “The spots at the table are filling up fast. You might want to get over there.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not even sure I’m going.” Wells stared at his boots but felt Max’s eyes lingering on him.

“You have as much reason to be at that table as anybody, Wells,” the older man said. His voice was quiet but firm as stone. “These people… our people… are together because of you. Alive because of you.”

Wells’s eyes shot to Sasha’s corner. Max glanced over his shoulder at it, following Wells’s gaze.

“She’ll be there too in a way, you know,” Max said, his voice softening slightly. “The Harvest Feast was her favorite holiday.” He stepped forward, pressing a hand to Wells’s shoulder. “She’d want you to enjoy it.”

Wells felt his eyes stinging. He cast them down and nodded. Max squeezed his shoulder and let go.

“I’ll be sitting up at the head of the table with the rest of the Council,” he said, striding out. “I’ll save you a seat beside me. You wouldn’t want to miss Bellamy’s speech, right?”

Despite himself, Wells smiled at the thought of his brother, the brand-new Councilor, giving a speech to hundreds of people. They’d only recently discovered that they were half brothers, but their relationship was evolving quickly, moving from begrudging mutual respect to true loyalty and affection.

Wells followed Max out of the cabin and shut the door gently behind him, letting his gaze linger on the little bird. It was hard to believe that a child had carved it. The young Sasha had captured the animal in mid-flight, making it appear light and joyful, just like she looked on the rare occasion when she set aside her responsibilities and let herself be free. He’d been privileged, he realized, to see that side of her—to watch her shriek with delight as she plunged into the lake from a far greater height than Wells would ever dare. To see her fierce green eyes mellow with tenderness after a kiss. Wells’s carelessness had robbed them of a lifetime of these moments, but it couldn’t take away the memories stored deep within his heart.

He might not have the right to celebrate tonight, not after all he’d done, all he had to answer for—but he did have plenty left to be thankful about.