My dearest son, I read, the words suddenly there on the page, clear as anything, Not a month old and already life is readying its challenges for you!

I swallow, my heart beating fast, my throat clenching shut, but I don’t take my eyes off the page, cuz there she is, there she is–

The corn crop failed, son. Second year in a row, which is a bad blow, since the corn feeds Ben and Cillian’s sheep and Ben and Cillian’s sheep feed all of us–

I can feel the low hum, feel the Mayor behind me at the opening of my tent, putting his learning inside my head, sharing it with me–

– and if that weren’t bad enough, son, Preacher Aaron has started to blame the Spackle, the shy little creachers who never look like they eat enough. We’ve been hearing reports from Haven about Spackle problems there, too, but our military man, David Prentiss, says we should respect them, that we shouldn’t look for scapegoats for a simple crop failure–

“You said that?” I say, not taking my eyes off the page.

“If your mother says I did,” he says, his voice straining. “I can’t keep this up for ever, Todd. I’m sorry, but the effort it takes–”

“Just another second,” I say.

But that’s you waking up again in the next room. How funny that it’s always you calling me from over there that stops me talking to you right here. But that means I always get to talk to you, son, so how could I be any happier? As always, my strong little man, you have–

And then the words slide off the page, outta my head, and I gasp from the shock of it and tho I can see what’s coming next (all my love, she says, she says I have all her love), it gets harder, knottier and thicker, the forest of words closing up in front of me.

I turn to the Mayor. He’s got sweat across his brow and I realize I do, too.

(and again, there’s that faint hum still in the air–)

(but it ain’t bothering me, it ain’t–)

“Sorry, Todd,” he says, “I can only do it for so long.” He smiles. “But I’m getting better.”

I don’t say nothing. My breath is heavy and so is my chest and my ma’s words are crashing round my head like a waterfall and there she was, there she was talking to me, talking to me, saying her hopes for me, saying her love–

I swallow.

I swallow it away again.

“Thank you,” I finally say.

“Well, that’s fine, Todd,” the Mayor says, keeping his voice low. “That’s just fine.”

And I’m realizing, as we’re standing there in my tent, how tall I’ve been getting–

I can see nearly straight into his eyes–

And once more I’m seeing the man in front of me–

(the tiniest hum, almost pleasant–)

Not the monster.

He coughs. “You know, Todd, I could–”

“Mr President?” we hear.

The Mayor backs outta my tent and I follow him quick in case something’s happening.

“It’s time,” Mr Tate says, standing there at attenshun. I look back at the projeckshun but nothing’s changed. Viola’s still asleep in her tent, everything else is like it was before.

“Time for what?” I say.

“Time,” the Mayor says, pulling himself up straighter, “to win the argument.”

“What?” I say. “What do you mean, win the argument? If Viola’s in danger–”

“She is, Todd,” he says, smiling. “But I’m going to save her.”

{VIOLA}

“Viola,” I hear, and I open my eyes and wonder for a moment where I am.

There’s firelight coming from past my feet, warming me in the loveliest way, and I’m lying on a bed which seems to be made of woven shavings of wood but that doesn’t even begin to describe how soft it is–

“Viola,” Bradley whispers again. “Something’s going on.”

I sit up too fast, and my head spins. I have to lean forward with my eyes closed to catch my breath again.

“The Sky got up about ten minutes ago,” he whispers. “He hasn’t come back.”

“Maybe he just had to go to the toilet,” I say, my head starting to throb. “I’m assuming they do.”

The fire is blinding us a little to the half-circle of Spackle beyond it, most of them bedded down for the night. I pull the blankets around me tighter. They seem to be made of lichen, like the kind they grow on themselves for clothing, but it’s different up close than I expected, much more like cloth, heavier and very warm.

“There’s more,” Bradley says. “I saw something in their Noise. Not much more than an image. Fleeting and fast, but clear.”

“What was it?”

“A group of Spackle,” he says, “armed to the teeth and sneaking into town.”

“Bradley,” I say. “Noise doesn’t really work that way. It’s fantasies and memories and wishes and real things next to fake things. It takes a lot of practice to figure out what even might be true and not something the person wants to be true. It’s mainly just mess.”

He doesn’t say anything, but the image he saw repeats in his own Noise. It’s everything he said. It’s also going out into the world, out across the half-circle, over to the Spackle.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I say. “There was that one who attacked us, wasn’t there? Maybe he wasn’t the only one who didn’t vote for peace–”

A loud beep from my comm makes both of us jump. I reach for it, under the blankets.

“Viola!” Todd shouts as I answer. “Yer in danger! You gotta get outta there!”

[TODD]

The Mayor knocks the comm right outta my hand.

“You’ll endanger her worse by doing that,” he says, as I scramble after it. It don’t look broke but it did shut off and I’m already clicking buttons to get her back. “I’m not kidding, Todd,” he says, strong enough to make me stop and look at him. “If they get any hint we know what’s going on, then I can’t guarantee her safety.”

“Tell me what’s going on, then,” I say. “If she’s in danger–”

“She is,” he says. “We all are. But if you trust me, Todd, then I can save us.” He turns to Mr Tate, who’s still hovering there. “Everything ready, Captain?”

“Yes, sir,” Mr Tate says.

“Ready for what?” I say, looking twixt the pair of ’em.

“Now that,” the Mayor says, turning to look at me, “is the interesting thing, Todd.”

The comm beeps back into life in my hand. “Todd?” I hear. “Todd, are you there?”

“Do you trust me, Todd?” the Mayor says.

“Tell me what’s going on,” I say.

But he just asks me again. “Do you trust me?”

“Todd?” Viola says.

{VIOLA}

“Viola?” I finally hear again.

“Todd, what’s happening?” I say, looking worried up to Bradley. “What do you mean we’re in danger?”

“Just . . .” and there’s a pause. “Hold tight for a second.” And he clicks off.

“I’ll go get the horses,” Bradley says.

“Wait,” I say. “He said to hold tight.”

“He also said we’re in danger,” Bradley says. “And if what I saw is true–”

“How far do you think we’d get if they wanted to hurt us?”

We can see some faces looking back at us now from the Spackle half-circle, flickering in the firelight. It doesn’t feel threatening, but I’m gripping the comm tight, hoping Todd knows what he’s doing.

“What if this was their plan all along?” Bradley says, keeping his voice low. “To get us into negotiations and then make a demonstration of what they’re capable of?”

“I didn’t get any feeling from the Sky that we were in danger,” I say. “Not once. Why would he do that? Why would he risk it?”

“To have more leverage.”

I pause as I realize what he means. “The punishments.”

Bradley nods. “Maybe they’re going after the President.”

I sit up further, remembering the Sky’s images of the genocide. “Which means they’re going right for Todd.”

[TODD]

“Make the final preparations, Captain.”

“Yes, sir,” Mr Tate salutes.