Last night, we camped beside a river and were nearly eaten alive by mosquitoes. This morning, Logan had us up at dawn and moving east while the early morning gloom was still clinging to the sky. It’s going to take us another two days to get to the ruined city where we’ll meet up with Quinn and Willow. I find myself worrying that they won’t catch up. That they’ve been hurt or killed.
I don’t want to add anyone else to the list of people I’ve lost. I’ve learned that death is an insatiable creature with greedy hands, and the people I love seem to be easy targets.
Which is why I’ve dedicated chunks of time every day to tutoring Sylph, Jodi, Cassie, Mandy, and any other girl who wants to learn the art of surviving in the Wasteland. I teach them as we walk. We discuss which plants are edible, which are medicinal, and how to cover your tracks so your enemy can’t find you. We hunt small game, skin it ourselves, and find hiding places in the dark underbelly of the forest’s depths. We shoot arrows and hit our targets. We throw knives and hit those targets, too. And we know how to fatally injure a man who makes the grave mistake of underestimating us.
If the Commander catches up to us, I want the girls he tried so hard to keep under his thumb to be his worst nightmare.
“Chickweed,” Sylph says, and tugs on my arm as she points to a thick bush on the side of the trail. The small oval leaves form a cross with a white flower in its center. “Am I right?”
“You’re right.” I smile as she bounces off the path and begins gathering handfuls of the edible plant. Jodi joins her, her blonde hair coiled on top of her head in a thick braid.
“And blueberries,” Jodi says as the springy chickweed plant gives way to a tangle of berry-covered vines. “Right? Or are these pokeweed? I don’t want to pick something poisonous.”
“That’s pokeweed. See the bright purple stem? That’s how you tell the difference.”
Sylph and Jodi return to my side, each carrying a cloth sack full of chickweed. I wrap my arm around Sylph’s waist and give her a quick squeeze. “Lesson’s over for today. I have something to discuss with Logan.”
“Sounds serious.” Jodi wiggles her brows at me.
“I think that’s just Rachel for ‘I need to go kiss my boy.’” Sylph laughs when I glare at her.
“She does like to lock lips with him every chance she gets, doesn’t she?” Jodi laughs, too.
I reach up and pat them both on the head. “Poor things. If you had a boy who looked like Logan, you’d be kissing him every chance you had, too.”
“I was right, you know,” Sylph says.
“About what?”
“About Logan. I told you he was waiting for you.” She grins.
I laugh. “Took him long enough to figure it out.”
“So is he a good kisser?” She elbows me in the side and bounces a little as she waits for my answer.
“I don’t . . . I mean, I’ve never been kissed by anyone else, so . . .”
“Well, how do his kisses make you feel?” Jodi frowns at me. “He doesn’t drool on you, does he?”
“No, he doesn’t drool. He just . . .” He just makes me feel almost whole. Almost better. Like if I could just get close enough to him, everything else would fade away and never come back. I lose myself for a moment in the thought of his callused fingers gently sliding over my back, his lips pressing urgently against mine, his breath quickening against my skin.
Sylph laughs and snaps her fingers in front of my eyes. I jerk my attention back to her and feel heat in my face.
“Well, I don’t know what you were just thinking about, but I’m going to guess it means Logan knows what he’s doing when he kisses you.”
The heat in my face spreads down my neck. “Yes. He knows what he’s doing. I only hope you can say the same about Smithson.”
“Smithson is just as good a kisser—”
“Then why are you over here with us picking chickweed instead of kissing him?” I ask, and Sylph’s dark eyes light with mischief. Without another word to us, she jogs to where Smithson walks, throws her arms around his neck, and kisses him. When she comes up for air, Smithson’s cheeks are as bright as the pokeweed stems, and his expression is dazed.
“Your turn,” Jodi says. I’m about to offer to stay with her so she won’t have to walk alone, but she isn’t looking at me. She’s eyeing Ian with a speculative gleam in her eye. I silently wish her luck prying him away from the two girls who are currently admiring his biceps and giggling over his compliments and then head toward Logan.
The ground beneath me is spongy with the river’s damp. My boots skid a little as I hurry past the wagons, intent on reaching Logan, who walks at the front of the line as usual. Even from here, I can see the weary line of his shoulders. The way he keeps rubbing his eyes like he can push the fatigue away for another hour. Another day.
When he isn’t leading us through the Wasteland, he’s giving orders and then double-checking that the orders have been followed. At night, when he should be resting in our shelter, he’s either poring over the Rowansmark tech, trying to understand the device well enough to re-create it, or he’s taking a shift of guard duty.
I, on the other hand, have walked the edges of the group by day, ready to fight off an attack that never comes, and have slept in the shelter by night because Logan keeps telling me he has the night-shift guard duty covered and doesn’t need me.
I don’t want to add anyone else to the list of people I’ve lost. I’ve learned that death is an insatiable creature with greedy hands, and the people I love seem to be easy targets.
Which is why I’ve dedicated chunks of time every day to tutoring Sylph, Jodi, Cassie, Mandy, and any other girl who wants to learn the art of surviving in the Wasteland. I teach them as we walk. We discuss which plants are edible, which are medicinal, and how to cover your tracks so your enemy can’t find you. We hunt small game, skin it ourselves, and find hiding places in the dark underbelly of the forest’s depths. We shoot arrows and hit our targets. We throw knives and hit those targets, too. And we know how to fatally injure a man who makes the grave mistake of underestimating us.
If the Commander catches up to us, I want the girls he tried so hard to keep under his thumb to be his worst nightmare.
“Chickweed,” Sylph says, and tugs on my arm as she points to a thick bush on the side of the trail. The small oval leaves form a cross with a white flower in its center. “Am I right?”
“You’re right.” I smile as she bounces off the path and begins gathering handfuls of the edible plant. Jodi joins her, her blonde hair coiled on top of her head in a thick braid.
“And blueberries,” Jodi says as the springy chickweed plant gives way to a tangle of berry-covered vines. “Right? Or are these pokeweed? I don’t want to pick something poisonous.”
“That’s pokeweed. See the bright purple stem? That’s how you tell the difference.”
Sylph and Jodi return to my side, each carrying a cloth sack full of chickweed. I wrap my arm around Sylph’s waist and give her a quick squeeze. “Lesson’s over for today. I have something to discuss with Logan.”
“Sounds serious.” Jodi wiggles her brows at me.
“I think that’s just Rachel for ‘I need to go kiss my boy.’” Sylph laughs when I glare at her.
“She does like to lock lips with him every chance she gets, doesn’t she?” Jodi laughs, too.
I reach up and pat them both on the head. “Poor things. If you had a boy who looked like Logan, you’d be kissing him every chance you had, too.”
“I was right, you know,” Sylph says.
“About what?”
“About Logan. I told you he was waiting for you.” She grins.
I laugh. “Took him long enough to figure it out.”
“So is he a good kisser?” She elbows me in the side and bounces a little as she waits for my answer.
“I don’t . . . I mean, I’ve never been kissed by anyone else, so . . .”
“Well, how do his kisses make you feel?” Jodi frowns at me. “He doesn’t drool on you, does he?”
“No, he doesn’t drool. He just . . .” He just makes me feel almost whole. Almost better. Like if I could just get close enough to him, everything else would fade away and never come back. I lose myself for a moment in the thought of his callused fingers gently sliding over my back, his lips pressing urgently against mine, his breath quickening against my skin.
Sylph laughs and snaps her fingers in front of my eyes. I jerk my attention back to her and feel heat in my face.
“Well, I don’t know what you were just thinking about, but I’m going to guess it means Logan knows what he’s doing when he kisses you.”
The heat in my face spreads down my neck. “Yes. He knows what he’s doing. I only hope you can say the same about Smithson.”
“Smithson is just as good a kisser—”
“Then why are you over here with us picking chickweed instead of kissing him?” I ask, and Sylph’s dark eyes light with mischief. Without another word to us, she jogs to where Smithson walks, throws her arms around his neck, and kisses him. When she comes up for air, Smithson’s cheeks are as bright as the pokeweed stems, and his expression is dazed.
“Your turn,” Jodi says. I’m about to offer to stay with her so she won’t have to walk alone, but she isn’t looking at me. She’s eyeing Ian with a speculative gleam in her eye. I silently wish her luck prying him away from the two girls who are currently admiring his biceps and giggling over his compliments and then head toward Logan.
The ground beneath me is spongy with the river’s damp. My boots skid a little as I hurry past the wagons, intent on reaching Logan, who walks at the front of the line as usual. Even from here, I can see the weary line of his shoulders. The way he keeps rubbing his eyes like he can push the fatigue away for another hour. Another day.
When he isn’t leading us through the Wasteland, he’s giving orders and then double-checking that the orders have been followed. At night, when he should be resting in our shelter, he’s either poring over the Rowansmark tech, trying to understand the device well enough to re-create it, or he’s taking a shift of guard duty.
I, on the other hand, have walked the edges of the group by day, ready to fight off an attack that never comes, and have slept in the shelter by night because Logan keeps telling me he has the night-shift guard duty covered and doesn’t need me.
