I freeze, take two quick steps back into the hallway. Duck behind the doorframe.

The woman stops whistling, props her mop against the wall. “Hush, my darling,” she coos, stepping to the side and reaching down over the railing of a small bassinet on wheels that I hadn’t noticed while focusing on the woman.

She picks up a child, a baby, no more than a few months old. Gently, ever so gently, she rocks it in her arms, once more singing the moon dweller lullaby, whisper soft.

I hold my breath the whole way through, barely blinking, entranced. When she places the baby back in the portable bed, I empty my lungs, the sound louder than I expected it to be.

The woman turns sharply, startled. “Oh,” she says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was here.” She looks embarrassed, guilty, like she’s the one who’s not supposed to be here, rather than me.

“I’m,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, like a soldier, “just making my rounds.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. A grim smile. What is she so worried about? Surely being here is her job.

“I—I know I’m not supposed to bring Charity to work, but I—” Her voice trails away as she looks at the baby sleeping beside her.

“Rules are rules,” I say in the sternest voice I can muster. I realize my hand’s still on my knife. Was I really considering slicing this woman open, potentially killing her? Baby or no baby, have things gotten so far out of control that I’d do that? Hurt an innocent woman?

“My husband—he’s not well. He can’t look after her while I’m at work. He can barely look after himself. I don’t have any other choice,” the woman pleads.

Does it matter if this woman dies? I wonder. Like the rest of us, her life is falling apart. Is one life more important than another? If I’m destined for greatness, to save lives, to kill a corrupt president, to overthrow a dictator, does that make my life more valuable than a woman who does nothing more than raise a child, care for a sick husband?

As long as blood’s running through my veins and my heart is beating, yes, it matters. Maybe more than anything. This woman is exactly who we’re fighting for. The Tri-Tribes, yeah, them too. The dwellers below. But not only them. This woman. Her child. Her sick husband. Those who can’t fight for themselves.

“It’s okay,” I say, softening my voice. Her eyes widen like it’s the last thing she expected me to say. “I won’t tell anyone.”

And then I move on without another word, no doubt leaving the woman speechless, alone with her baby again.

Down the hall I run, feeling more and more tired with every step. At some point I have to sleep, or my exhaustion will no doubt cause me to make a mistake. But where?

I pass a door and the placard on the wall catches my eye. Morgue.

Stopping, I return to the door, which is windowless. Soft, white light pours through a tiny crack at the bottom. Slowly, slowly, slowly I turn the handle, push the door open. Cold air rushes out, instantly sending a chill through my bones. I freeze when I catch sight of a foot.

Not moving. On a table. I push further in, slip inside, turn the handle and close the door, as quiet as a sleeping baby.

Thankfully, the dead soldier’s eyes are closed, not watching me.

She’s naked, dark lines drawn on the entirety of her body, as if in preparation for an autopsy. White light from panels above gives her skin an unnatural sheen, almost as if she’s glowing from within. I shiver, the cold biting through my stolen uniform.

Is this my chance for a chip? The woman’s right arm appears unmarred, so apparently they haven’t taken her chip out, if they will at all. I could easily extract it, but would that lead to too much suspicion? The last thing I want is a massive manhunt within the dome. It would distract the earth dwellers until they caught me, but my mission would still fail. And they’d likely kill me.

But wait. If she’s here, in the army medical building, she must be a soldier. Again, not the type of person’s identity I want to steal. I need someone who can blend into the background better…

I sit down on an empty slab, hug myself, trying to create heat by running my hands up and down my opposing arms. A wave of exhaustion hits me. I need sleep.

Well, if nothing else, they’d never expect me to be hiding out here. I stand, walk to the wall, where there are rows and rows of large drawers, rising all the way to the ceiling. Grabbing a handle, I say a silent prayer that this particular “bed” is unoccupied. Slide it out, cringing until I see the blank and empty darkness inside.

Goodnight, Tristan, I think as climb into the drawer that’s meant for a dead person, use the top to slide myself in, closing it completely, save for a sliver of soft, white light shimmering through a crack at the end.

Chapter Twenty

Siena

All we can do is follow the fire chariots as best we can, wondering why in the name of the sun goddess they’re rushing off in the direction of our friends to the north. Whyohwhyohwhy.

Nothing makes sense. Nothing good anyway.

Thankfully, the dunes slow them down, as they have to take the long way ’round the big ones, while we—Skye and Wilde and Tristan and me; we left Lara and Hawk back at the cave—can just go over ’em, careful to wait ’til they can’t see us anymore. But soon the dunes give way to flat, hard ground, and they race away from us, the only evidence of their passing the lingering clouds of dust and the cracked-earth tracks from their wheels.

We run along the track, and I’m impressed that Tristan is able to keep up. His forehead is red from the sun—unprotected by the half-mask he’s wearing—but he ain’t slowing, ain’t complaining. “You run well,” I say between breaths.

“I’ve had to do a lot of running recently,” he says.

We pass the cave that he and Adele first emerged from and I see him staring at it. “No one’s stoppin’ you,” Skye says, noticing it too.

Tristan just grits his teeth and keeps on running, only looking back once.

The sun reaches its midpoint and still we run, clinging to the tracks like a baby to its mother, as the ground pops up in mounds. And then we climb a mound and the fire chariots stand ’fore us on another hill, strangely still, like a hurd of grazing tug. As if they’re trying to decide what to do.

A loud CRACK! rings out and we see the Glassy soldiers diving behind their fire chariots, clustering near the wheels. I know that noise. It was a fire stick going off. Invisible killers. Not the fire sticks themselves, but whatever comes out of ’em, the little metal pods we found stuck in the sides of our shelters after the last attack.

But who would be shooting fire stick pods at the Glassies? Only the Glassies know how to use ’em.

Shouts in the distance. From the Glassies. Screams further still. From someone else.

CRACK, CRACK, CRACK!

More shots, the soldiers still ducking. Now some of ’em are sticking their fire sticks underneath their chariots, ’round the sides, aiming at whoever’s doing the screaming and shooting.

CRACKCRACKCRACKCRACKCRACK!

A flurry of shots, fire exploding from the soldiers sticks, which is why we named ’em the way we did. And then the soldiers are jumping back into their…trucks, and they’re racing out of sight, over the hill, attacking someone…

Skye yells for us to go and we do, racing down one mound and up the next, peering through a dust cloud as we crest the hill, seeing the chariots flying across a flat, barren field, right toward—my heart stops ’cause I can’t believe my searin’ eyes—a massive group of people, as many as we have left in all the Tri-Tribes.

And I can see right away that they’re…they’re Icers. All the Icers.