It had to be a fever dream. He’d never been in such a ridiculous situation in his life.

  “You’re as full as a tick on a bull,” the lady said. “Maybe go a little easy on the cinnamon bread next time.” She laughed at this then waved her hand in the air as if shooing at a fly. “And believe it or not, young man, we have full-flushing toilets in this here domicile. Looks like that’s destined to be a major perk for you in the next hour or so.” She blushed a little, then shrugged a shoulder as if she didn’t actually care two spurts about such talk. “Just be sure and wash up and don’t leave the place lookin’ like a rat’s nest. Air it out a bit, too, if you could be so kind—just open up a window, rain or shine, hot or cold. Gets a powerful stink up there even when I take care of business, and I can only imagine the levels of nose-burners you’re gonna unleash.”

  “Thank you,” the Orphan said, unsure of what exactly he was thanking her for.

  It had been a surreal hour or two, that was for sure. Roxy brought him into her home, showed him to a room with a giant bed, carpet on the floor, paintings and mirrors on the walls, a large window that looked out on mountains. There was even a giant stuffed bear on the floor, a thing so outrageous that the Orphan stared at it for a full minute before glancing away. A bathroom was attached, equipped to the core with a sink, toilet, and tub. A framed craft of some sort hung on the wall with words stitched across a colorful depiction of flowers. It said: No matter where you travel, no matter where you roam, the best part is coming home.

  Yep. Had to be a fever dream.

  He’d washed up, put on fresh clothes provided by his host, then joined her for a single meal that could’ve fed every last person in his barracks room back at the fortress. Just him and her, her and him. She had to be at least fifty years old, though he had no real basis for the guess. She just seemed matronly, old-fashioned, like a . . .

  Well, like a grandma. A grandma in a fever dream.

  The Orphan had devoured the food—beef, potatoes, beans, corn, cinnamon bread—offering only grunts and nods or shakes of the head as she talked his ear off, barely touching her own food. She’d lived alone for years since her husband died, and before that they’d lived most of their adult lives alone, loving each other and tilling the land, hunting the forests for game. This only added to the fairy-tale nature of the whole thing, but the Orphan mostly concentrated on shoving more food down his throat.

  And now, here they were. The Orphan, tilted over on the couch, too stuffed to move, and Roxy sitting all prim and proper on her chair. Not for the first time, he wondered why he’d trusted her so much, so quickly—especially in a world drenched with mistrust and sorrow. He didn’t know for certain, but his heart told him that he’d had no choice. That he’d reached the end of his rope. Kind of like a boy named Kit . . .

  “You ready to tell me your name yet?” she asked him.

  He gave her a quizzical look.

  “I’ve asked you several times since you arrived, and, well . . . Don’t take this the wrong way—you seem like a very nice young man—but you make lots of sounds and most of them aren’t words. Now, I don’t expect you to do a whole lot of talkin’ the way you stumbled into my yard barely alive and skinny as a toothpick, but I would at least like to know your name.”

  The Orphan forced himself to sit up straight on the couch, wincing a little as the movement squeezed his full stomach. “I have a long way to go. All the way to Alaska.”

  Roxy nodded approvingly. “Not quite what I asked, but thank you for finally telling me something about yourself.” She paused, nodding to herself. “Alaska, huh? May I ask why?”

  Trust only went so far, no matter how much food was offered. “I’m sorry, miss, but I can’t do that. I just need to get up there. I know it’s a long, long way.”

  “Roxy, please. You will only call me Roxy—none of this ‘miss’ business, ya hear me?”

  The Orphan merely nodded.

  After a weighty sigh, she continued. “Listen to me, carefully. I have been alone and sad and scared of the world for what seems like an entire lifetime since my husband died. He was a good man, a wonderful man, and I miss him so much my heart feels like a beating wound. You came here because you’re supposed to come here. I know it like I know I have two feet and nine toes—don’t ask. You need to go to Alaska? Well, son, I have a powerful, working truck and thirty gallons of fuel and plenty of things to carry food and water. There ain’t no buses or trains so you’re gonna have to do with this old lady as your partner. This old lady and her truck.”

  The Orphan blinked. The Orphan didn’t know what to say. The Orphan knew that he would accept her offer but could only manage a nod.

  “Splendid. But first you gotta tell me your name, son. We won’t survive very long if I don’t even know your damn name.”

  A few seconds passed, but only a few.

  “My name is Minho.”

  “Now that’s more like it!” She slapped her leg. “Now tell me something about your past life—I don’t care what, just a tidbit—and then we’ll think about what we need to do. Come on, now, don’t be shy. Just one itsy-bitsy thing about the man named Minho.”

  This woman was strange and used a lot of words and he really liked her. “I . . . was trained to be a guard on a wall. I’d . . . kill people if they came too close. And once, I saved a boy from getting murdered.”

  Roxy blinked. “That’s very interesting. Not quite what I expected, honestly. Which is all the better—man, are we gonna have some doozy conversations around the old campfire.” She stood up. “Alright, Minho. Let’s get packin’ shall we? That truck is itchin’ for a road trip.”

  She sat in almost complete darkness, a sputtering candle the only relief. It stood upon a small wooden table, directly in front of her, its flame unmoving, a teardrop of fire pointing toward the low ceiling. On the other side of the table was a man with horns—two of them, each one curved and almost a foot long, sewn to his head but looking for all the world like he’d been born with the things. Different people had different ideas of devotion, she reckoned.

  He was a clean-shaven man, though nothing else about him could be described as clean. He stank, and every inch of skin not covered by the robes of the pilgrims had been smeared with grime or grease or the chalky white lines of evaporated sweat. A lovely man, really.

  “What you ask of us,” he said, his voice surprisingly un-Viking-like, almost gentle. “It can only be answered with two words, and I hope you don’t take offense.”

  When he didn’t say more, she prodded him. “Okay. What are the two words, please?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Hell, no,” she repeated. “As in, there’s very little chance you can do it?”

  “That’s about the gist of it. Ain’t possible.”

  She sighed for dramatic effect and folded her arms, crossed her legs. All three actions were frowned upon by pilgrims of the Maze. Too casual. The man with the horns grimaced but didn’t say anything.

  She made her next move. “What if I told you there’s no choice in the matter? What if I told you that no matter how many ‘hell, nos’ you throw at me, you will do what I ask because I can make you realize why you have no choice?”

  He leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “Can we cut the BS, please? Can we both just agree to stop the charade? I ain’t got no power with the pilgrims, and if you are a pilgrim I’ll donate my body to a Hollowing at the next Maze Mass. Fess up.”

  She affected a quick flash of fear on her face then wiped it away with a forced smile that made her look like she was trying to hide . . . oh, bother. She did most of it without thinking, anyway. But every step and every word were calculated.

  “How did you know?” she asked. “What gave it away?”

  He leaned back in his chair, visibly proud of his detecting skills. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the fact you don’t smell like a bucket of shite? Maybe the fact that your face is clean and looks like it ain’t been hit even once with the ugly stick? You say words in the right order and ain’t fallin’ on your knees every time the word ‘Maze’ is uttered? I could go on.”

  “Okay. Your point is well taken.”

  “So, spill it. Why’re you here? Ain’t you scared? Do you have any idea how many bad people roam these here parts?”

  “Aren’t most of them followers of the Maze?”

  “Damn, lady!” he said as he slapped the table. “Them’s the worst ones! Worst by a long shot!”

  She bristled. “Aren’t you one, yourself?” She very pointedly looked at the horns sewn upon his head.

  His eyes wandered up then rolled back down. “Those? Yeah, those. Let’s just say that weren’t one of my better decisions. Sleepin’ with these is a task, I tell ya. But I was young and drunk and there might’ve been a lady involved. She’s dead now and I still got these damn horns.”

  “We can help each other,” she said. With the Flaring discipline, she threw all the compassion and reason and certainty into the words that she could. Her proposal from earlier would now seem like the most assured thing in the world to him.

  “Yeah, yeah, I hear what you’re saying. I’m pickin’ up what you’re puttin’ down. Forget that whole ‘Hell, no’ thing I said. I’m in. For you.”

  “We’ll need more of your friends,” she continued. “They all need to be pilgrims, just like you. But maybe a little more devoted. A lot more. But not too much. A fine balance, I know.”

  “Okay. Alright. And you’ll keep all those promises you made when you first sat down? Every last one of ’em?”

  “And more.” She whispered it, making him lean forward. “You get me what I want, and you’ll be able to move into the towers. And those horns can be removed by a professional.”

  He liked that last one. Oh, you could see it in his eyes.

  “Alright, then,” he said. “What’s this thing look like, anyway?”

  “The Coffin?” she asked. “Here, let me tell you.”

  She’d almost missed it. Almost.

  “Here!” she yelled, frantic, needing someone else to see what she thought—hoped—she was seeing. It had only been a few seconds and already she worried that her eyes deceived her. “Over here! Hurry!”

  Dominic was the first one to reach her. “Holy crap,” he whispered.

  Miyoko was right behind him. Then Trish. The four of them had been grouped together in their continued hunt for Isaac and Sadina. Although there’d been several signs of human passage leading away from the house from which their friends had been abducted—fresh footprints, the remains of a campfire, human waste—Jackie and the others couldn’t know for sure who’d caused them.

  Until now, she thought.

  They were two or three miles from the house in question, the clues leading them in a direct course away from the ocean, toward the east. Jackie’s group had been assigned a small neighborhood that seemed a perfect spot for someone who wanted to break into a house for a night’s sleep or simply to hide. One of the houses, up on a hill at the very end of the main street, had a three-foot-high brick wall encircling the yard—which had long ago given up its fight against weeds and bushes.

  Someone had used a rock to scrawl a surprisingly large message across the bricks, right beside the little gate at the front of the yard. There could be no doubt as to who had done it, especially because it looked so fresh:

  ISAAC THE BLACKSMITH WAS HERE

  ALSO, SADINA THE WISE

  “Does that say what I think it says?” Jackie asked, just to make sure she hadn’t lost her mind after hours of relentless searching. The day had been very hot and every inch of her clothes stuck to her skin.

  “I think it says what you think it says,” Miyoko responded, her voice full of glee.

  No one had to put words to the reason for her joy. They were alive. They were alive.

  “I’ll get the others,” Dominic said; he took off running down the hill.

  That’s when Jackie noticed Trish, who’d wandered a few feet away. She had her face covered with both hands, crying, shoulders shaking with each silent sob. Miyoko saw it as well and moved to embrace their friend. Trish allowed it, and Jackie joined in the hug.

  After a good long cry, Trish pulled away and stared at the words sketched across the brick.

  “I can’t even describe the relief I felt seeing that,” she said. “Even though I’m scared they’re hurting her or whatever. But oh man, at least we know she and Isaac are alive. I mean . . . this obviously can’t be a coincidence, right?”

  Jackie saw that she was already losing her renewed confidence from the message.

  “No way,” Jackie said. “It was obviously done in the last few hours—look how fresh it is. And I think that’s why Isaac included the ridiculous ‘blacksmith’ part, so there’d be no doubt if and when we saw it. Even I know about his obsession with your Forge.”

  Trish let out something that was close to a laugh. “Yeah, he’s a little weird about it.” She sniffed and visibly gathered her wits about her, standing straight and tall. “You’re right. This was definitely from them and now we know we’re on the right path. That’s the best news we’ve had all day.”

  Shouts rang up from the distance. Dominic was leading a pack of their friends down the street. He was running, trying to keep up with Ms. Cowan, who had to be as screwed up with mixed emotions as Trish. They all looked pissed and ready for war.

  We’re on the right path.

  Jackie agreed. As strongly as she’d ever uttered anything in her life, she spoke two words for her friends and all the world to hear.

  “We’re coming.”

  Roxy handed him a metal bowl, hot to the touch, filled with a gorgeous stew that smelled so good it brought tears to his eyes. They sat next to a fire—she had insisted on calling it a “campfire,” a word better suited to their fun adventure, she liked to say. He didn’t care. He wouldn’t have cared if they’d given the flames a stupid name, like Casey. Brent. Jeffrey. Whatever. It was warm, it cooked food, and the food was tasty.

  “We’re going to have a lot of time to get to know each other,” Roxy said after a swallow of stew. “You know? So I’m not going to do that old lady thing and constantly ask you questions. No, sir, I won’t do it. When you want to tell me about your life, then, why, you just go ahead and tell me about it.”

  She nodded stiffly—as if convincing herself, not him—then took another bite of dinner.

  He thought he’d throw a surprise at her. “Well, what about your life? I wanna hear every little detail. Leave nothing out.”

  She stared hard at him, the stew on her spoon sliding back into the bowl.

  “Minho, you’re teasing me. That’s not very nice. You shouldn’t tease a cool, level-headed, middle-aged lady like yours truly. No, sir. Really gives you a bad look.”

  Minho made a sound that might be a chuckle in other civilizations. “I’m not teasing, Roxy. I haven’t teased anyone since I was saved from the Flare pits as a baby. Tell me about stuff. I’ll open up eventually, but you gotta set the example.”

  “Well, that’ll work just fine, young man.” She beamed, a face lit up with a sincerity and genuineness he’d rarely—if ever—seen back at the Remnant Nation.

  “Let’s hear it, then.” He scraped the last bits of stew from the bowl, licked the spoon clean, then settled back and put his hands behind his head. “I apologize in advance if I fall asleep.”

  Despite that, she started.

  “My earliest memories, as a child, are mostly made up of images. Grandparents, feeble, more from the harshness of the world than from their age, sitting on stumps. A dad who was a wrecked person, always distraught, unable to get over my mom, who’d died in some horrible way that was never explained to me, no matter how many times I asked. My dad carried a little wooden stool wherever he went. I can still see him sitting on that thing, staring at the ground.” She paused, doing what her dad did. “He ignored me, mostly. It wasn’t his fault, you know. He was just so . . . broken from whatever he’d been through. From what happened to my mom.”

  Minho sat up, leaning forward on his elbows. “Roxy . . . I’m sorry to hear that. That’s really, really sad.” That was it. That was the best he could do. Hating himself a little, he lay back and settled on his blanket.

  “I know your life has been just as harsh,” Roxy said quietly, the words barely slipping through the wispy flames of the campfire. “More harsh. I think it would mean a lot to me if we could end up talking about these things. These . . . horrible, crappy things.”

  Minho shifted so that he could look up at her face. “Roxy?”

  She pinched her mouth as if expecting a rude comment. “Yes?”

  “Thank you for telling me that.”

  She definitely seemed taken aback. “Well . . . you’re welcome. Thanks for listening. So what . . . do you want to hear more? Or do you want to take a turn?”

  Minho snored, loudly.

  He had to fake it a bit, but not much. His eyes had closed and his breathing turned weighty. He needed sleep. And it would come, what with yet another small beginning having graced the path of his hardpan life.

  “Typical,” Roxy whispered, but there was no hurt in the word. She shuffled and shifted and settled for the night. “Goodnight, you interesting young man.”

  He faked another snore.

  “Typical,” she whispered again.

  “Roxy?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Thank you for that stew. It was the best meal I’ve ever had, except maybe the one we had at your house. Thank you.”

  A few seconds passed, the dying spits of the fire and flame the only sound.