Remo was shivering, his damp skin clammy in the misty chill. Strands of hair escaping his soaked braid draggled across his furrowed forehead.

“If you got yourself warm, I bet you’d drop off right quick despite your troubles, tired as you look. All that swimming, after all. I expect you’re still hurting, too.”

In all ways, not just his bruises, thought Dag. He suppressed a smile at the way Remo stared up open-mouthed, blatantly susceptible to what were likely the first kindly words he’d had from anyone for days. A pretty young woman offering him food, a soft bed, and sympathy was not someone he was going to argue too hard with, even if she was a farmer.

“Wise Spark,” Dag commended this. “Take her up, Remo; you won’t get a better offer tonight.” He had the bare wisdom himself not to add aloud, It beats swimming halfway across the river all hollow. No good sprinkling salt on wounds, even self-inflicted ones.

Remo glanced as if surprised at his hand, now empty of leftover cornbread, and around at the flatboat and the darkness of the rippling river. Only a few orange lights from Pearl Riffle Camp shone through the half-naked trees on the far hillside.

“This boat’s not going anywhere tonight anyhow,” Fawn pointed out.

Remo shook his damp head. “No, but a rise is coming on. You can feel it, out in the middle. That’s why I swam across now. By morning it’ll be too dangerous, and by tomorrow night, these boats will all be gone.”

Remo had lived in this ferry camp all his life; Dag expected he knew the river’s moods well. Further, swimming the river left no evidence behind of what direction he’d taken. A missing horse would have said north; crossing on the ferry would have left witnesses who could say south. Once he was gone beyond groundsense range, none could guess if he’d gone north, south, east, or west. Or halfway across the river.

A faint breeze raised goose bumps on Remo’s lavender-tinged skin, and he yielded abruptly. “All right.”

“Be real quiet,” whispered Fawn, her hand on the door latch. “They’re mostly asleep in there.”

“Berry?” Dag murmured.

“I told her you’ll explain in the morning. She rolled back over.”

“Ah.”

With Remo tucked into the bedding before the hearth like an oversized, overtired child, Dag and Fawn at last made it back to their own curtained bed. Their bedroll, unfairly, had chilled down. They rubbed each other half-warm, and laced limbs together for the rest.

“Wondered why you chose just then to come popping out,” Dag murmured into Fawn’s curls. “You thought he meant it about that half-river, did you?”

“This time o’ night, you do. Besides, as ragged as Remo looks, and as big as this river is, the decision might be pulled out of his hands before he made it back to the other shore.” She added reflectively, “It’s a lot bigger than the river by West Blue, that way. Drowning yourself in that one would have called for a lot more determination. Here, you could do it just by inattention.”

He hugged her tight. “No half-rivers.”

“Anyhow, I took exception to your advice about not running away from your troubles. You picnicking fraud.”

An unvoiced laugh shook his chest. “But I’m not running away. I’m running toward.” He sighed. “And just in case I miss any, they follow after and join me. It’s going to be a crowded boat, Spark.”

In the morning, Fawn found to her excitement that the cracked mud at the bow had disappeared under new water. But Berry said the rise was not yet high enough to get the Fetch over the Riffle. Since Fawn suspected the moving boat would not be safe for complicated cooking, she indulged herself instead in what might be the last chance for a while to fix a real West Blue—style farm breakfast.

This resulted in a lot of munching around the crowded foldout kitchen table, and not much talk at first that wasn’t requests to pass things, although most everyone shot curious peeks at Remo. Berry was bland about the uninvited guest. Bo was either hungover, or indifferent. Hod seemed intimidated, with lots of looks Dag’s way as if for reassurance. Whit was wary—Remo was both older and bigger than he was, as well as being a full-fledged patroller. Hawthorn had a baby raccoon, a prize from one of his coal-salvaging coins, and had no interest in anything else.

Fawn had to admit, the bright-eyed creature was wildly cute. Hawthorn was trying to keep it in his shirt, with limited success; Whit observed that he should have bought a baby possum for that. Bo said raccoons were destructive, and if Hawthorn didn’t keep his pet under control, Bo would make it into a hat.

“Now, Bo,” said Berry, cutting across Hawthorn’s hot protests. “Could be worse. Remember Buckthorn’s bear cub?”

Bo wheezed a laugh, and gave over harassing Hawthorn. Hawthorn, Whit, and Hod then fell into a debate about what to name the kit. Dag said little, but Fawn spotted him slipping the curious animal a fragment of bread.

Remo didn’t attempt to join the talk. He was medium-tall, broad-shouldered; Dag called him a boy, but he looked like a full-grown man to Fawn. He was not good-looking so much as good-enough-looking, but was probably attractively healthy when he wasn’t recovering from a beating. His hair, dry and re-braided, hung halfway down his back. He finished cleaning his plate and looked up at last. “So,” he said to Dag. “Did you decide? Can I come with you?”

Dag left off helping to spoil the raccoon kit and returned the look. “I don’t know. Can you?”

Remo frowned uncertainly.

Dag went on, “I’m not your patrol leader. More to the point, this isn’t my boat. I just work on it. If you want to arrange passage, you have to talk to the boat boss like anyone else.” He nodded across at Berry. Remo’s head turned to meet her rather ironic gaze, and he blinked.

Dag’s response seemed a bit unfeeling to Fawn, but maybe he had a reason. She waited for it to emerge.

Remo finally addressed Berry: “How do I arrange passage, then?”

“Well, you have to either buy it or work it. Everyone else here’s decided to work it.”

“How much to buy it?”

“How far are you going?”

“I…don’t know.” He glanced at Dag. “Graymouth, I guess.”

Berry named a sum of coins that made Remo’s face set. No deep purse here, it seemed. Fawn was unsurprised.

“And working?” said Remo.

“I don’t know. What can you do? I know you know narrow boats—I heard about the coal-boat boys you fellows pulled out of the Riffle. Can you man a flatboat sweep?”

“I once did it for a day. Barr took me venturing…” He broke off.

“Hm.” Berry glanced at Dag, who shrugged. “I didn’t expect to have one Lakewalker crewman, let alone two. So…how’s this. I’ll take you on trial as far as Silver Shoals. That’s my next stop. Papa and Alder were seen there last fall by some keeler friends, so I know they made it at least that far.”

Remo made an inquiring noise; Whit explained rather sternly about Berry’s quest. Remo looked a bit taken aback to be reminded that people besides himself could have serious troubles, and he squinted as if seeing Berry for the first time. Fawn imagined the view through the haze of his own misery was still a bit blurry.

“Be aware,” said Dag, with a hint of challenge in his voice, “that if you choose to work, from the time you set foot on the Fetch till the time you step off Boss Berry will be your patrol leader.”

Remo shrugged. “It’s just a flatboat. How hard can it be?”

Whit frowned on Berry’s behalf, but before he could wade in, a clunk from the back of the boat brought everyone’s head around.

“Log,” said Bo.

“Current’s moving better,” said Berry. The Fetch shifted, and the ropes from the stern to the shore flexed and groaned a trifle.

Hawthorn ran out to the back deck and returned, reporting, “The river’s going browner. Not long now!”