It still amazes me, how it can be so beautiful while everything down here dies.
As though she can hear my thoughts, Indie whispers, “In all seriousness, Delta, we shouldn’t talk about the stars that way. The gods might hear.”
“In the cellar? When we’re half buried in dirt?” I raise an eyebrow, and she smiles. It’s not a real smile, just an I’ll-humor-you one. She’s been doing that a lot since she got pregnant, still making jokes but then seeming to regret it, forcing herself to be the parent between us. Her green eyes glimmer, and I’m struck by how unalike we are. We share a mother, but our pas are different, and in the candlelight it’s obvious. Her with green eyes, me with brown. Her nose broad and mine a narrow bridge. Her hair a shade of straw and mine as dark as the night. We’ve never met our fathers, though, and in this way, we’re the same. Tied to Ma. Tied to the pack. Tied to Dead River.
“They’ll come back for us—the gods. You have to believe that.”
“I believe it, Indie.” I tighten a stitch. “At least I’m trying to.”
Her eyes go wide.
“Blasphemous, I know,” I tease, but she’s not laughing. She’s looking only at her lap, her mouth twisted in concern. “It’s just hard to accept that they’ll return before it’s too late. I know what happened last time we lost faith. I’ll never forget what happened to Asher, or all the others we left behind at Alkali Lake, but if we—”
Indie’s hand clasps over my wrist, stopping my work on the goggles.
“Delta?” she says, her voice small against the raging wind. “I think my waters just broke.”
Chapter Two
No. That can’t be right. Indie’s got another moon still, maybe a bit less. Either way, it’s too early. But then she’s on her feet and shaking Ma awake, muttering adamantly, “Marin. It’s the baby. The baby’s coming.”
I stand there useless as Ma inspects Indie’s skirt and underthings. “There’s not enough for it to be your bag of waters.”
“It’s something,” she insists.
“Could also be nothing to worry about. Especially if contractions don’t come.”
But deep into the night, when the storm is still howling around the hut, Indie starts complaining of pressure in her stomach. There’s not an ounce of sarcasm in her tone, and she hasn’t cracked a joke since before we sat shoulder to shoulder against the wall. That’s an unnaturally long time for her to remain serious. She’s begun to sweat too, and Ma worries aloud because Indie’s pain waves aren’t coming in any predictable increment.
“Should I get Astra?” I ask. Ma’s best friend has delivered every baby in our pack.
“Not in this weather,” Ma answers. “Just soak a rag in water for Indie’s head.” She holds my sister’s hand while she lies panting on the mat.
I do as I’m told, hating to watch some of the water bead to the dirt floor, wasted. Indie grimaces when I set the damp cloth on her brow.
“Easy breaths, Indie,” Ma tells her. “Low and long.” She coaches her through the night. I help when I’m needed, finish the work on my goggles when I’m not, and somehow manage to sleep a bit in between.
When dawn breaks, the storm’s gone, taking the dust with it, but Indie’s deteriorated. She’s a sweaty mess, and when Astra comes to check on her, I hear her and Ma discussing a fever.
“Flint’s due soon,” I offer. “Maybe he’ll stop in today and we can send him to Zuly’s for a tonic.”
“Indie doesn’t have that long,” Astra says, crouched beside Indie’s mat.
“How can she not have a day and a night? She’s perfectly healthy. She was in the fields working just yesterday.”
“Something’s wrong. Something beyond my means. She needs to see Zuly. Someone needs to take her today.”
I suck in a breath. Needing a tonic from Zuly is bad enough as it is, but to have to go straight to the Ark, to venture out into the wastes to get to her tanker . . . Only the desperate do that, the souls already on death’s doorstep.
“Delta . . .” Ma begins, but I don’t need to see the agony in her eyes or even hear her plead. I nod. This is my sister. What other choice do I have?
Ma rushes to our storage shelves, gathering anything of value that we might be able to trade. Three of her glass jars, one filled with salt, another flour, and the third baking soda. Then a loaf of bread for good measure and a handful of our pathetic potatoes. She wraps it all in a towel and tucks it into my rucksack.
“What if there’s another storm?” Astra asks as I shoulder the bag.
“They rarely strike back to back, and if I move fast, I can be to Zuly’s by nightfall.”
“Indie is in no state to walk.”
“I’ll tow her. There’s a dragger in the stable. I used it to move driftwood around while extending the dock. I can use it to move Indie, too.”
“Be careful,” Ma says, and presses a kiss into my forehead. “Trust—”
“—no one,” I finish.
Trust no one. The rule of the wastes, the law of the land, our guiding order since Alkali Lake.
I slip upstairs and run to retrieve the dragger. Our camp has been transformed by the storm. The bonfire is a heaping mound of sand, and the huts all look lopsided now, sand and dirt piled up on their western sides, where the wind blew in.
Pewter’s at the stable, checking the animals. “Delta,” she gasps, startled by my sudden appearance. She meets my eyes, then frowns. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Indie. I’m taking her to Zuly’s.” I pull ropes and harnesses from the hooks until I reach the dragger.
“But that’s . . . You can’t. It’s not safe.”
“No. But someone has to take her.” I throw the dragger down, use a broom to clear it off.
“Let me help.” Pewter shakes the braided handle, sending dust scattering, then reaches for the broom. I let her take it. She’s been helping me patch a leak in the dam lately, and I’ve seen what an efficient worker she is. As she cleans, I return the other ropes to their hooks, and by the time we get the dragger outside, a small crowd has gathered, wide-eyed and worried. Zuly’s care comes to us by traders carrying meds. We never go to her. They know as much as I do that this is bad.
Ma and Astra help me load Indie onto the dragger, and Pewter brings two jars of fresh water from Old Fang’s stores, then pours them into my waterskin. I race through goodbyes, hugging everyone in turn, even Astra’s boy, Cobel, who’s fifteen and declared himself too big for hugs five years ago. Then I slip the dragger’s braided handle over my shoulder and across my torso and trudge off. It’s hardest for the first few steps, but once I get moving, the sledge skids over the ground with a bit less fight.
When I reach the last hut of our camp, I can’t help it—I pause and look over my shoulder. The whole pack’s watching. They’ll wait eagerly for our return, and as they do, they’ll miss Indie most. I might build tools and extend docks and design traps, but I don’t make people laugh the way Indie does. I can’t tell a good story or distract from the drought or light up a hut when I enter.