I brush off my moccasins and leave them with my crossbow next to the door. If Whit’s teaching the younger children, it means he’s explaining the Yara. Which before long will be my job. When I was four—just after my mother’s death—Whit tested me and found I was able to Conjure. Besides him and my mother, I am the only one of my tribe capable.

In three years I will undergo the Rite, and will then take his place as clan Sage, as my mother should have if she were still alive. So recently Whit’s left more and more of the clan Readings to me and has begun to show me how he Conjures, being careful what he shows me, since I can duplicate his results with ease.

“Why don’t you join us, Juneau?” Whit asks. The children are seated in a half circle around him. Nikiski’s there—he must have sprinted back—and next to him are Tanaina, Wasilla, and Healy, ready to hear Whit’s lesson, one he repeats for all age groups several times a year. I’ve heard it so many times, I could recite it by heart.

I sit down next to Whit as he pours a layer of ground mica on the floor. The firelight reflects in it, making it sparkle. The young children watch, their attention caught and held by the glistening powder.

Whit etches a large circle with his finger. “This is the earth. Everything in it is a part of the same organism: you, me, the dogs, the ground, the air.” He takes Healy’s hand and blows a puff of air on it, demonstrating wind, causing the four-year-old to giggle in delight. “We live inside a superorganism, and everything within it is connected by a powerful force.”

“The Yara,” the children shout in unison. Whit pulls a mock-surprised expression and asks, “Have you heard this story before?”

“Yes!” the children yell, laughing gleefully. Whit smiles and unconsciously smooths down the solitary strand of gray hair in his black mane. It’s the one sign of his aging before he found the Yara. Proof that he is the oldest in the clan.

“You’re right,” he concedes. “The Yara is the current that moves through all things. It’s what allows us to Read.” Inside the circle representing the earth, Whit draws concentric smaller circles. “Can you tell me what kinds of things have the Yara flowing through them?” He points to the outermost circle.

Tanaina lifts her hand and blurts out, “People!”

Whit nods and points to the next circle in.

“Animals,” Wasilla says, and then adds, “Plants,” as Whit moves to the next circle.

Placing his finger on the innermost circle, he says, “Even the elements—fire, water, air, earth—they all have the Yara running through them.

“Since you are close to the Yara, you can use it to connect with all the other members of earth’s superorganism.” Whit draws lines from the outer “human” circle to those inside. “Even rocks have a memory of what has happened around them. If you can ever get them to talk!” The children laugh again, knowing that speaking rocks are one of Whit’s jokes, even though there is a measure of truth behind it.

“Okay. Today’s lesson is over,” Whit says. The children let loose, tapping their fingers in the mica powder and wiping it on their faces like war paint. Everybody piles outside, and Whit and I head toward his yurt.

“Did Nikiski give you my message?” he asks.

“In his own way,” I say, grinning. “Something about meat?”

“Yes. We’re running low,” he says. “I thought you could handle it, since the rest of the hunters are needed for the clearing of our summer encampment.” Whit’s mouth quirks up into a smile. “I didn’t think you’d mind going on your own.”

My mentor knows me as well as my father does. Besides Ketchikan and Cordova, I’m the best hunter in the clan. And I relish time spent on my own.

We arrive at Whit’s yurt. Beside the door sits a lightweight sled with a mountain of supplies strapped to it and a pair of snowshoes draped across the top.

“I Read the skull for you,” he says. “You’ll find caribou in the south field tomorrow morning. Get a good night’s sleep and you can be down there first thing in the morning.”

I nod. “I’ll start at daybreak.”

“And be careful not to—”

“—cross the boundary. I know, Whit. I’ll be careful,” I promise.

“All right then. I’m off,” he says, and gathers up his pack from atop his sled.

My father appears from behind the neighboring yurt. “Sneaking away again, Whit?” he teases.

“I hate long good-byes,” Whit responds with a smile. “And I’ll only be gone two weeks.” He turns and straps the sled’s rope across his chest, and disappears down a path in the woods.

“I still don’t understand why Whit won’t take dogs on his retreats,” I say.

My father puts a hand on my shoulder and walks with me back toward our home. “He has his own way of doing things,” he replies.

We reach the main encampment. The smell of dinners cooking and warm puffs of smoke exiting the crowns of the yurts makes my stomach rumble.

Dad and I push through the door flaps to see Beckett and Neruda lying lazily by the fire, keeping watch over the steaming stew pot.

“So how is my warrior princess?” he asks, as I hang my crossbow from a side beam and begin shucking off my moccasins and parka. “Did Whit say he was sending you hunting?” he asks.

“I leave tomorrow morning,” I respond, as he begins ladling out bowls of moose stew. He hands me a bowl and spoon, and I join him in front of the fire. I blow on a steaming spoonful of meat and take a bite. Nestled in the warmth and security of our yurt, I think for the thousandth time of how lucky we are. Dad and I have each other. We have a good life, while the world outside our boundaries is nothing but radioactive waste, bands of marauding brigands, and for anyone else who might have survived World War III, an existence filled with misery and despair.

2

MILES

“AS I HAVE EXPLAINED, I CAUGHT YOUR SON cheating on his final exam.” Ms. Cochran, my English teacher, makes a face like she smells something rotten as she holds up my minuscule rolled-up crib sheet. I force myself to keep a neutral expression in front of my dad and the principal, but shrink down into my chair.

“Since when was cheating on a test grounds for expulsion?” my dad exclaims.

Mr. Riggs, the principal, glances at the open file on the desk in front of him and runs his finger down the page. “When a student has had two previous suspensions for bringing alcohol and drugs onto school grounds.”

My dad clears his throat. “Well, perhaps we can talk further about it, like we did on those occasions,” he says, glancing at Ms. Cochran. If she wasn’t here, the conversation would already have turned to donations my dad’s company could give to the school, but judging from the dark look on Mr. Riggs’s face, I doubt that would work this time.

“Yes, well, I know that in your case there have been mitigating circumstances, but we can’t keep making your son an exception to the rule. Billingston Academy has a strict three-strikes-and-you’re-out rule, and I’m afraid I’m going to have to enforce it in your son’s case.”

A few days later Dad gets a call from the Yale admissions office saying that my enrollment is on hold until they receive some proof that I am “receiving help for my behavioral issues.” And that’s when Dad comes up with his mail-room plan.

3

JUNEAU

MY ARROW FLIES TRUE AND THE GREAT BULL CARIBOU slumps to the ground. I sling my crossbow over my shoulder, and the virgin snow crunches under my moccasins as I sprint across the field to kneel by the beast’s heaving side. “Thank you,” I say as I draw my knife from my belt. I pet the bristly fur of his muzzle and look him straight in his huge glassy eye. And then I slit his throat.