Next I see a fire ant hill teeming with activity. Fat, red ants of all shapes and sizes scurry around like their lives depend on their ability to do a bunch of stuff ’fore the sun goes down again; and the sun goddess’s eye’s not even really up yet—it’s just a glow of orange on the horizon.

The fire ants bring my thoughts back to the Marked. One of the stories I heard a lot as a Midder was that if the Marked found someone trespassing on their land, they’d bury you next to a fire ant hill, and let the nasty little biters do the rest. When they’d come back a few days later, you’d be nothin’ but a buried pile o’ bones. Talk like that always freaked me out, but in a fun, sandmonster kind of way. If something’s not real, it’s fun to pretend that it is. But now that the Hunters are talking about the Marked like they’re real people—prisoner-burying-next-to-fire-ant-hill kind of people—well, now the thought of them ain’t so fun.

What if they’re the ones disturbing the Killers? How the scorch are we s’posed to stop them? Those are questions my father as Head Greynote’ll hafta deal with. For a moment I feel sorry for him. A very quick moment.

After a lot of trudging, and just as the top curve of the sun is peeking above the horizon, the winds pick up. At first it’s a nice breeze, more’n welcome under my rather sweaty circumstances, but soon becomes a gale force, swirling the dust and sand around like little miniature tornados, what we call dust devils. They can be dangerous, but only if there’s a whole bunch of them spittin’ up sharp rocks and such. These ones are just an annoyance, coating our lips, cheeks and pretty much everything else in a thin layer of dust. The good thing though, is that Luger can’t talk to me with weather like this.

When the winds eventually die down, I spot something in the distance, the first real structures we’ve seen since leaving the village. A line of boxes, like little Greynote huts all in a row, ’cept not covered. Only I know that no Greynotes live all the way out here in the desert. This is Confinement.

Overhead there’s a caw and a croak—half a dozen vultures circle lazily overhead, as if they’re expecting their next meal to come from Confinement. Perhaps it will. Perhaps they’ve gotten a lot of meals from this place.

“Welcome to paradise,” Luger sneers.

“Thanks,” I say, stone-faced. Inside I’m trembling a bit and I’ve got to grizz. I squeeze hard and hold it—both my fear and my bladder—refusing to let this mouse-mouthed Greynote see my weakness.

He explains everything as we approach. “You’ve been sentenced to a day. Someone will arrive tomorrow at this time to collect you. You’ll receive one meal from the Keeper, and I can tell you, it won’t fill even that shrunken belly of yours.” He smiles and my stomach rumbles, although I’m not really hungry. Maybe I shoulda nabbed that bag-throated ’zard when I had the chance.

“And water?” I ask hopefully.

Luger laughs. “Let’s just say you’ll be willing to drink your own grizz by the time the day’s over.”

I try to swallow, but already my throat seems dry and full of dust. “Anything else?” I croak, sounding more like the circling vultures’n a Youngling girl.

“Yeah. Learn your lesson and you won’t end up back here again. Stay away from that trouble-making Youngling until after your Call.” At first I think he means Lara, but then I realize it’s Circ he’s talking about. My father probably put him up to saying all this. Circ is anything but a trouble maker.

“I will,” I lie.

“That…I doubt,” Luger says. I clench my jaw shut tight to stop it from snapping at him.

When we get to the first “hut” I realize they’re nothing like the Greynote huts, which are solid buildings with well-thatched roofs that keep the sun and rain and wind out. What stands ’fore me is a cage, that’s the only way to describe it. A series of vertical wooden poles are the bars on both the sides and top. Heavy rope and tug glue lash them together at the corners. Nothing covers the gaps between them, leaving them fully exposed to the elements, as well as prowling animals.

I gulp. “Have the Killers ever…?”

“Only once,” Luger says, stopping to face me. “Back during the first Killer war. At that time the Killers were pretty much running unobstructed across all of fire country. There were thirty prisoners in Confinement at the time. When the Hunters went to check on them, every last one of these cages was smashed to pieces.” I close my eyes, wishing I hadn’t asked the question and hoping he’ll stop there. He doesn’t. “There were huge paw prints everywhere. They were filled with blood.”

My stomach’s doing backflips—and not the good kind, like when I see Circ every day at Learning. I think I’m going to throw up. If Circ’s right ’bout there being someone hunting in Killer territory, they might be prowling all around our land right now, sniffing out weaknesses. A bunch of Heaters in cages would undoubtedly be considered a weakness.

“Just get on with it,” I say, trying to sound tough. My voice shakes with every word.

We continue past the first cage, which appears to be empty. The second also seems unoccupied, but then I spot him: A curled up blotch of flesh in the corner, no more’n a collection of elbows and knees. If he wasn’t staring at me, his eyes blinking every few seconds, I’d think he was dead. His face is gaunt and ageless. His beard long and matted. He’s been here a long time. I wonder what he did to deserve such a punishment.

“Welcome to Scorch,” he says, his voice whisper-thin.

The next cage is also used, and I’m surprised to recognize the prisoner right away. Bart. A big guy. Well known around the village for starting—and finishing—fights after a night of too much fire juice and fireweed. He also has a reputation for using his hammer-like fists on his Calls. He’s prowling around his space like a caged animal, growling and pushing and pounding on the wooden bars every so often. Despite their crotchety appearance, the cages are sturdier’n they appear—they don’t so much as quiver under Bart’s unceasing assault. When he sees me staring at him, he stops, bares his teeth in what I think is meant to be a smile. “Please, nice Greynote, sir, can I share a cage with her?” He licks his lips.

I look away and we keep going. Luger doesn’t say a word.

Behind us, Bart hollers, “Just as well. I’d probably crush her under me anyway.” He laughs, a gritty, throaty sound that reminds me of the growl of the Killers that got me here in the first place.

There are at least fifty more cages spread out in front of us, but Luger stops at a real hut, complete with a door, walls, and an inclined roof, one half of a triangle. Above the door is a painted sign: The Keeper. The scraggly words are splotched in a red so bright it could be fresh blood.

“Wakey, wakey, Keep!” Luger shouts, pounding on the door. “I’ve brought you another gift.”

I hear grumbling, a bang, a curse, and then the heavy trod of footsteps on a wooden floor. “Keep yer britches on,” an unfriendly voice says through the door just ’fore it opens.

The door rotates open with a bitter creak that makes me think it’s as equally annoyed to be awakened as the Keeper. Lit by the bright sunlight, the bare-chested Keeper is as pale white a person as I’ve ever seen. Some of the Hunters told Circ that some of the Glassies that attacked our village a few full moons back were as white-skinned as the snow. But I ain’t seen snow, nor have I seen any Glassies, so that might all be a big load of tugwash. Anyway, this guy looks like he spends most of the day in his windowless hut. He squints his coppery eyes and winces, as if being exposed to the sun gives him physical pain, which maybe it does. His unlined face is barely visible behind a dark mask composed of a thick beard and mustache, bushy eyebrows, and a mop of curly hair that bobs just over his eyes. I guess there’s not much point in grooming when you don’t see anyone but prisoners.