Even before Dalton says “Maryanne?” I know who this is. A woman who left Rockton years ago. A biologist who’d mentored Dalton, taught him, shared his insatiable curiosity about the world around them.

When Maryanne left with others, his father made the militia pursue. Rockton did not allow residents to become settlers. Dalton had been the one to find their camp, with evidence they’d been attacked by hostiles. A year later, he saw Maryanne again, and she was a hostile—did not recognize him, tried to kill him, almost forced him to kill her. Maryanne is one of those pieces that makes me think my theory is not so far-fetched after all.

I look at this woman, and I try to imagine a biologist, rapt in conversation with a teenage boy. A brilliant woman with a doctorate who decided to go live in her beloved natural world, and who made that choice willingly. Chose that and ended up as this.

She looks at me, and she’s squinting, studying me as she did before, when we faced off and she did not attack. She squints as if trying to place me, too. Or maybe it’s more than that. Maybe she’s looking at me and seeing a mirror, reflecting something that sparks forgotten memories.

I used to look like that. Used to dress like that. Talk like that.

“Maryanne,” I say, carefully, too aware of that knife in her hand. “I’m Casey. This is Eric Dalton. You remember him, right? From Rockton.”

Dalton gives a start, as if snapping out of the shock of seeing her. “Right. It’s Eric.” He pauses for a second. “Eric Dalton. Gene was my father. We talked about biology. You specialized in black bears. I found papers you wrote, on vocalizations and body language. I read them a few years ago. You were a professor at a university in Nova Scotia.”

Her brow furrows, as if she’s trying to understand the language he speaks. Intently trying to understand. She might even be struggling to hear—I see the blackened ear he mentioned, lost to frostbite. But there’s more to her expression than incomprehension. It is as if she’s peering deeper into that dark mirror, catching wisps of shadows that look like people she once knew.

“Bears,” she says.

Dalton nods. “Right.”

“Eric?” Kenny says.

Dalton lifts a hand to tell Kenny to stay where he is. He never takes his eyes from Maryanne. “I found your camp after you left Rockton. I know something happened to you.”

“Eric,” she says. “The boy with the raven.”

“Uh, right.” He shoots an almost sheepish glance at me and then looks back at Maryanne. “I was trying to train a raven. I wanted to see if it could be taught to use tools. You told me there’d been studies on that, and you thought it might be possible.”

Dalton has never told me this. That look says he finds it a little embarrassing now. But I remember when he first caught me training “my” raven. He rolled his eyes then, but I’d gotten a sense that my experiment pleased him.

“Eric with the raven,” she says. Then she pauses. “Eric with the gun.”

“Yes. You wanted to learn to shoot. I showed you, but you couldn’t actually do it. You couldn’t shoot anything.”

He’s giving as much as he can, trying to prod those memories, like speaking to someone with amnesia, but I can tell it’s not quite getting through. It’s like talking to a small child, one who is listening mostly to the sound of your voice and picking up familiar words. She is making connections, though. She is remembering.

And she is not attacking. That is the most important thing, because in her restraint I see hope. The others attacked. The others now lie, bloody, on the ground. And yet it isn’t fear that holds her back. She could have attacked. She could have fled. But she sees Dalton, and something has changed from the last time. The rage is gone.

“Do you remember Rockton?” he asks. “Where we lived? Where you met me?”

“Eric. The boy with the raven.”

He nods. “I’m going back to Rockton. I would like you to come with me. You’ll be safe there. We have . . .” He pauses, as if struggling to remember something. “We don’t have ice cream. That’s what you said you missed most from down south. Ice cream. But we’ve shaved frozen milk before. You can have that. It’s like ice cream.”

There’s no sign that she understands what he’s saying, but when he says, “You’ll come with me?,” she tilts her head, listening. I put out my hand, and she stares at it.

“Come with us?” I say.

She looks at Dalton. He moves my way, a sidestep, motioning for her.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s your choice. You can come with us or . . .”

He doesn’t say “or not.” He glances at me, and we exchange a look that says that isn’t an option. We want her to come willingly, but what is the alternative? To leave her out here, with her people dead?

There is opportunity here. So many opportunities. For her, to return to what she had been. For Dalton, to exorcise this particular ghost from his past. And yes, for me, to answer my questions about the hostiles. Both Mathias and Cypher have said we need live subjects, and while the very concept has horrified me, Maryanne is the perfect subject—not a lab rat but a woman we can help.

We walk a few steps. Then we motion for her to come with us. She looks about. She sees the men on the ground. Sees the two bodies. Sees the two wounded. Then she nods, and I can’t tell whether it’s acceptance or satisfaction. Whether she sees her comrades fallen through their own mistakes . . . or her captors finally getting their comeuppance. Either way, she nods. And then she follows. One step. Another.

There’s a noise behind us. Kenny or Storm must step in undergrowth, and it crackles beneath their feet. Maryanne wheels. Dalton says “It’s okay. We’re—” and I don’t hear the rest. I see her face. I see her reaction, as pure and unthinking as my own.

There is a noise in the forest. There is a threat.

She catches sight of Jacob and Storm on the path and lets out a howl, barely human. She charges. I’m right behind her as she runs, knife raised. Jacob only yanks the dog back behind him, no panic, knowing he’s fine. He realizes she’s just startled, and he can stop her, or I will, or his brother will, and she is no threat.

Dalton shouts, “Maryanne! It’s okay!”

That’s when she sees Jacob. Sees his face. Sees the resemblance to Dalton and begins skidding to a stop, a few feet from him and—

A shot fires.

For exactly one second, I think it’s Dalton. Then I know it is not. Maryanne may have been running toward his brother with a knife, but Dalton has both a brain and a conscience. He will not shoot until he is absolutely sure his brother is at risk.

“Case—” Dalton begins, and then stops, having the exact same reaction as me. One moment of thinking I am shooting at Maryanne before realizing I am not.

Another shot. A half shout. Then Maryanne spins sideways. I run, and Jacob runs, and I hear Dalton’s strangled cry and the thud of his footsteps.

Another shot. This one whips right past me, and I stop. I see Maryanne. There’s blood. She’s standing against a tree, and there’s blood.

“Mary—” I begin.

She runs. She races into the forest, and I go after her, and there’s a third shot. I feel pain. Then I’m falling.

“Casey!” Jacob yells.

Dalton hits me, and I drop as he’s shouting his brother’s name and I have no idea what the hell is going on, and the next thing I know I am on the ground under Dalton and Jacob is on top of Storm.

I twist, ready to leap up. That’s when Dalton’s eyes round, his mouth forming my name as he grabs my chin. I feel a hot burn, and my fingers rise to my cheek. There’s a bullet graze across my cheek.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “It just . . .”

Just grazed me.

Just about killed me.

“Who—?” I begin.

Another shot. This one hits the tree near our heads.

“Kenny?” I say, as I try to twist.

That’s all I can think. It isn’t me shooting. It’s not Dalton. Jacob doesn’t have a gun. So it must be Kenny.

Dalton’s gaze flies to Jacob and Storm. His brother is crouched and pulling Storm along with him, his free hand motioning to us. Behind them is Kenny, hunkered down, gun lowered at his side.

I look up and scan the treetops and . . .

There’s a figure in a tree. A dark figure.

Sniper.

“Off the path!” Dalton shouts. “Get off the path. Into the forest.”

We creep into the undergrowth. Dalton has one hand wrapped in my jacket, not unlike Jacob with Storm. I only need to see Dalton’s face to know not to argue. He tugs me to a clump of bushes, and we crouch behind it, both of us breathing too hard for the minor exertion, both of us fighting panic.

The forest has gone quiet except for the moans of the dying hostiles. The sniper has his—or her—position and is holding it.

I look up into the trees. It’s dense enough over here that I won’t spot someone on a limb. It’s not dense enough, though, that we can just run, certain of cover.

I glance to my right. Jacob has Storm behind a cluster of tall undergrowth. He’s gesturing. Dalton is looking that way now, and they both motion, pantomiming a retreat plan.

I know what I want to do. Tell them to stay where they are while I make my way toward the shooter. Attack the problem.

Stay here, Eric. Stay there, Kenny. Jacob, hold Storm. Be safe. Please, I need you to be safe. Let me handle this.

Let me finish this.

If I even mention that to Dalton, he won’t hold me here by force—he’ll realize this is indeed the correct plan . . . and go to take down the sniper himself.

So when he taps my shoulder and nods to our next point of cover, I force myself to creep to that spot.

We reach it, and we make sure Kenny, Jacob, and Storm reach theirs.

Then we set out for the next point of cover. And the next. Each takes us deeper into the forest. Farther from the path. Farther from the sniper and the groans of the dying.

There is no sound except those moans. One turns to soft sobs. I hear a woman’s name choked in those sobs, and I think of the men we are trying so hard not to think about. The dying hostiles. Just hostiles. That’s what I want to think. Not people. Not men who may have been no different from Maryanne once upon a time, no less deserving of mercy and salvation.

The dying man keeps saying the name, over and over. A wife? Lover? Child? Sister? Someone he remembers in his final moments. Someone he calls for. And then there is a shot, and the crying stops.

The crying stops, and the other man lets out a string of unintelligible babble. The crunch of undergrowth. A thump, as if he’s rising, and that babble keeps coming. He’s begging for his life. Begging someone who is not in a distant tree but standing right over him and—

Another shot. Silence.

I hear a click beside me and turn to see Dalton topping up his gun. I do the same with mine after he’s finished, and I can see that makes him nervous—he doesn’t want my weapon unusable even for a second. When I finish, he nods, and I lean against him for a moment of comfort. Then I look out again.

I can see nothing. No one. Instead I listen, and I catch the telltale crinkle of dead foliage under a careful foot. It is off to our left, the sniper attempting to circle wide and surprise us that way.

Dalton taps my shoulder. He points as his brother does the same, both of them indicating rocks to our right. The foothills. Dalton nods. Then Jacob motions that we are to go, and he will stay. In explanation, he gestures at his side, where I know Storm lies.

He cannot run with her. We can’t tell her to be quiet or careful, and if she runs with him, they will be spotted.

Dalton swallows hard. I squeeze my eyes shut and make a choice. A choice I know I have to make even if every fiber in me screams against it. Even if this might be the one thing I do that I will never forgive myself for. If I am a good person, if I love Dalton, if I care for his brother, then I must make a monstrous suggestion.

“He should let her go,” I whisper in his ear.

Dalton’s gaze swings to mine.

I force the words out. “Tell him to drop the leash and run, and she’ll follow but . . .”

But she won’t be right at his side. She will be ahead or behind and that makes her a target, and I can hope to God the sniper decides not to bother with a dog, but this . . . This is what I must suggest, isn’t it? I cannot risk Jacob’s life to save my dog.

Dalton shakes his head. I shake mine harder, giving him a look that tells him I will not back down. His jaw sets. Then he motions for Jacob to drop the leash. Even from here, I see Jacob’s face screw up, like he must be misunderstanding.

Dalton motions more forcibly, and Jacob looks at me.

I nod, and mouth, Please.

He slowly and carefully lays down the lead, watching us for any sign that he has misunderstood. Once the leash is on the ground, Dalton gestures for Jacob to run into the rocky foothills. One final moment of hesitation, and a glance at Storm. Then Jacob runs.

Kenny takes off behind Jacob, and Dalton gives me a shove, making me go before I can even see what Storm does. When I also hesitate, he pushes harder, and I take a deep breath, and then I run.

I run as fast as I can, veering away from Jacob and Kenny so we separate, giving multiple targets, multiple sources of noise and movement. And I do not look at Storm. I do not try to see where she is and what she’s doing.

I have never prayed in my life, but at that moment, I send one up. Wherever the sniper is, let him realize what he sees is a fleeing dog, and there is no point in wasting precious ammo on it.

I run, and I know Dalton follows, but his footsteps fade fast as he heads in another direction. He must, same as I did with Jacob and Kenny.

Dalton has run to my left, which I don’t like. It takes him closer to the sniper’s likely location. But there’s nothing I can do except curse him—

A whistle. A bark.

No. Fuck, no. Eric. Tell me you are not . . .

Of course he is. Of course he will, and I’m a fool if I thought otherwise.

Another whistle. Calling Storm to him as he runs. I glance over to see him bend in midstride and grab her leash and then run with her at his side, with all the noise an eighty-pound Newfoundland makes running through the forest.

You fool. You goddamned fool.

That’s what we are, isn’t it? We are those vampires who cannot continue until we have picked up every grain of rice. The shepherds who cannot ignore a sheep in danger. The law keepers who cannot shoot to kill if there is room for mercy. The humans who cannot put their dog at risk, cannot let their lover suffer the loss of her pet.

No matter what the cost to ourselves, we keep making these damn mistakes, and we know they are errors in judgment, but we truly are no more able to stop ourselves than those vampires of lore. Compelled to help, to protect, to save.

It is weakness. I know it is weakness. I hate that weakness. But I know we won’t overcome it, no matter how many times we are shown that it’s a mistake.

We keep running, and I try not to think about Storm being with Dalton, Storm endangering Dalton. Try, try, try . . .

A shot hits the tree above my head.

“Cover,” Dalton yells. I’m already diving. I hit the ground just as another shot passes over me. I roll fast. Keep moving, keep moving. That is the trick here. Do not try to hide and hope for the best. Present a moving target.

I roll and then leap up and weave through trees. Jacob and Kenny are safe—they’ve reached the rocks and gone behind one, disappeared from sight. Dalton sticks to thicker forest with the dog, opting for safety over speed. I can see a rock ahead. I just need to—

A shot passes so close that I swear I feel it. I’m not going to make it. I’m too exposed, and the sniper has gauged my speed and is refining his shots.

I can’t go faster. I don’t dare go slower.

Just a little closer, a little closer . . .

“Hey!” There’s a shout behind me. “Hey, you! Over here!”

I think it is Dalton—it’s exactly the kind of fool thing he’d do. But I can see him, and I know where Jacob and Kenny went, and there’s no way either of them has circled behind me.

Another shot, and it goes nowhere near me. The sniper accepting the newcomer’s invitation.

“Here!” someone calls ahead, and Jacob peeks out.

He’s gesturing at a rock. It’s farther than the one I chose, but bigger, and while the newcomer distracts the sniper, I cross the last few paces and dive. Then I twist to see who is helping us.

I am almost afraid to see who it is. Afraid it is Anders or Sam or Paul come to find us. Afraid it is Cypher or some other settler who has come to our rescue and may pay the ultimate price for it. I even think it may be Wallace, that he has escaped captivity.

It is not any of those.

It is the absolute last person I expect.

Oliver Brady.