Their days had found a routine, and that helped Isaac’s mind from going completely bonkers—or wonky bonky as Trish would say if she were here. Cowan’s rash was getting wider and its red rawness peeked out from behind her scarf. Their plan was to retrace their steps to the house where Isaac and Sadina had been kidnapped, where Kletter was killed, and then to follow the streets and houses up the hillside until they saw people.

  “Kletter never told anyone what the Villa looked like, did she?” Isaac asked.

  “No, that woman had way too many secrets,” Jackie said bitterly.

  Isaac looked over at Cowan for her answer, but as a woman with too many secrets herself, he knew she wouldn’t say anything. “Ms. Cowan?” he prompted her. “Did Kletter say anything to you about the Villa? Before we got on the ship, maybe at your meeting?”

  Cowan blinked more slowly than usual, like her body and muscles were exhausting their strength to keep her legs walking. “I don’t know . . . I don’t think so.” Isaac wasn’t convinced. If Kletter had told her about needing control subjects and more people than Sadina from the island, then he was sure Kletter had revealed something else. Things that Cowan either didn’t remember or chose not to share.

  Jackie picked up another wiggly insect. “I think he likes worms the best.”

  Isaac watched Little Newt slurp up the even smaller creature. “He definitely is not a vegetarian.”

  Jackie rubbed her mouth, “Ew, plhhhpt!”

  “What happened?” He stopped as she spit something out and scraped at her tongue.

  “A bug just flew right in my mouth. Gross.”

  Frypan looked concerned. “Did it sting you?”

  “No,” Jackie said, still scraping.

  “Here.” Isaac handed over his canteen. “Wasn’t a murder hornet, was it?”

  “Probably, with my luck.” She spit again then took a sip of water.

  Frypan stole away their attention. “Hey, look. I remember that up ahead, that building.” He pointed, and it only took a second for Isaac to recognize it, too. It was the first building they’d seen upon arriving from the island. A true skyscraper, surrounded by many others. Only a short journey now to the house where Letti and Timon had slit Kletter’s throat.

  Thinking about that put Isaac on edge. He couldn’t let his guard down, and as they walked on, toward the same place where everything had gone wrong before, he reached for the knife Minho had given him.

  This time around, if someone taunted them from a creepy house, Isaac would be ready.

  Gastar saliva.

  A waste of saliva and a waste of breath, as her Abuela would say. There was no use in telling Carlos what she felt to be true about her mom and his wife. Dead. His poor, young, beautiful wife who he’d hoped to have children with someday. Carlos’ measure of hope would always outweigh anything else in his mind, and their trip was already depressing enough. Eating snakes, sleeping in the desert, moving camp every morning. The heat. The unbearable heat.

  “Do you want the snakeskin to make something?” Carlos asked as he packed up their cooking tools. Ximena declined with a quick shake of her head. There would be plenty more snakes on their path if she wanted to fashion something. “What’s the matter? You’ve been quiet.”

  “Nada. Nothing’s wrong.”

  Up until the clear feeling she’d had about her mom being dead, Ximena had spent every single day in the desert looking at the horizon, hoping she’d see her mom and Mariana walking toward them. Then they’d walk faster, then maybe they’d run. But she should have known that it wasn’t hope which brought them out here. It was her intuition that something was wrong. Manera de ver, as her Abuela would say. Her way of seeing.

  “You having a vision and not telling me?” Carlos asked as he flicked the snakeskin aside.

  She shook her head and kicked a rock, then started walking north again on the worn path. “No.” It wasn’t a lie. She had a feeling, not a vision. They were two very different things.

  Carlos nodded as he joined her. They had a map to the Villa if needed, but so far, the path was clear enough.

  Many people back home in the village had intuition in various forms. Carlos might, too, if he wasn’t so clouded by hope.

  Hope. It had a way of blanketing all things as some big, glorious lie until they morphed into what a person wanted them to be. Seers, on the other hand, embraced the pain of truth, and saw things how they weren’t.

  Ximena looked over at Carlos as they walked. He was a strong enough man to protect her from almost anything that came along—anything but the truth.

  “There’s something bothering you,” he said when he noticed her gaze. “You’re never this quiet in the morning.” He was right; typically, she thought out loud.

  Ximena softened. “Just thinking about what will happen when we get there, is all.”

  Carlos stopped. “Don’t be all mad at Annie when we see her. She can’t help it that these missions go on longer than expected.”

  “She can help it. She’s the lead on the team. She’s literally the only one who can help it.” Carlos picked up his feet again, but she wasn’t letting him leave this behind. Her mom and Mariana were two months past the latest point in time when the group had assured they’d be back. But Absent-Minded-Annie always conveniently forgot the promises she made to those back home, like when their mothers, daughters, and wives would return. Ever since Ximena was little, her Abuela had taught her how to trust herself and why she shouldn’t trust ‘Annie from the Villa.’

  Despite this, Ximena never actually thought Annie would get her mom or Mariana killed. So why was she feeling that way now? Ellas estan muertas, her gut whispered, as her mind searched for any feelings that came with names from home who’d left at the same time as her mom. Fransico, Manual, Ana . . . she concentrated on each name as she and Carlos walked but no imprint came to her. Dónde estás? But she got nothing. Not even colors of their auras came through.

  There had never been a time in Ximena’s childhood when she’d been separated from her mom where she couldn’t at least feel her, out there, wherever she was. Ximena didn’t know how to explain it to anyone else, but she couldn’t feel her mother anymore.

  If something was killing the rabbits, something could be killing people. Half-Cranks. Or healthy humans who weren’t Cranks but might as well be. Humans evil enough to annihilate her whole village.

  Or, there could be another virus.

  One that her homeland couldn’t withstand.

  A virus that started with dead black jackrabbits in the desert.

  “Annie isn’t—” Carlos gave a big sigh. “She’s not to blame for everything.” He looked back at Ximena to make sure’d she heard the last part.

  She had, but she didn’t believe it. It was painfully obvious that Annie had been responsible for every last thing that went wrong in their village in the last twenty-five years, and Ximena had only been alive for sixteen of those. If Carlos wanted to ignore it, she would let him continue to ignore it.

  “You’re so much like your mom right now.”

  “What? Why?” Ximena hated that it had been so long since her mom agreed to work off-site for the Villa that she was already starting to forget things about her.

  “She always thought she was smarter than everybody else.” Carlos shook his head as if being intelligent in a world full of half-Cranks was a bad thing. So what if her brain was more . . . human than most humans. Better that than the brain of an animal. A monster. Or a liar like Annie.

  Ximena itched at her neck. The mosquitoes were terrible in the desert. “Sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say. It wasn’t that she thought she was smarter than others, she simply just was. She almost always knew things before they came to fruition, especially when it came to her family and their village.

  A storm that came unexpectedly, out of season, and wrecked the roof of the south station.

  A sick elder on the west end who went blind from eating berries.

  And the most important one of all: her mom foresaw an “Eagle” coming to the land and bringing with it truth and awareness. An eagle moved itself into their village two years ago, perched on the highest of trees. No one else understood its importance as deeply as Ximena’s mom. Ximena was still trying to figure out what the prophecy meant, but the big beautiful bald eagle hunted in the field across from her house every day and watched over her village every night.

  Ximena’s mom sewed the design of an eagle into everything she laid hands on.

  And she made her daughter promise that she would do her best to sew truth into the world for the rest of her days.

  Orphans certainly weren’t Gods, but Orphans were no devils, either.

  Minho struggled to give himself a place within Roxy’s grandfather’s story but it was difficult to do because he didn’t know his creator—he’d never met his parents.

  “You fix that steering issue?” Roxy asked, motioning to the wheel.

  “Maybe,” Minho said. He’d tinkered below for an hour or so without knowing exactly what connected to what, but something might have worked. He let go of the wheel to see which direction it favored, and the ship slowly started to veer left again. “Nope.”

  “That’s okay. You’ve been blessed by the Gods.” She pointed to the sunset.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “They used to say pink sky at night is a sailor’s delight.” She laughed. “Are you getting tired of all these stories of Grandpa’s yet?”

  Minho smiled, something still relatively new to him. He liked that she called him Grandpa and not my grandpa. “Never.” He kinda liked hearing someone’s family history even if it wasn’t his own. And he especially liked knowing that more than just pain, torture, and disease could be passed down from generation to generation.

  “Well you’ve had just about the best sailing weather possible and this sky promises you another good day tomorrow.” Roxy put her arm around his shoulders. “Want me to take over?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “You’re finally getting me back for not letting you drive the truck?”

  “I’m getting you back, and I’m getting us there safely.” She wasn’t wrong; he did like being in control. Roxy nodded and handed him some water. He let her hold the captain’s wheel while he took a sip. Maybe he shouldn’t ask the next question, but he couldn’t help himself. Something about seeing the boat make wave after wave, ripple after ripple, made him realize that every action had a reaction. He needed to know. “How did Grandpa die?”

  Roxy’s face wrinkled up, like a berry that hung on the vine too long. “You soldiers get a little morbid, don’t you?”

  “No, I mean . . .” He paused, tried to ask what he really needed to know most. “Did he die at home, warm in bed?” The Orphan set the water down. “Or did he go for one of his travels one day and just never come back?”

  Roxy didn’t respond for a moment.

  “I need to know,” he said with a shrug. “Just like you needed to know about your mom. I just do.”

  Roxy let go of the captain’s wheel. “Are you worried you killed him? All the way out in that Remnant Nation of yours?” She shook her head as if it were impossible, but she didn’t know just how many men the Orphan had killed.

  He swallowed hard. “We’ve shot lots of trespassers.” He hung his head, couldn’t bear the thought of it.

  “Grandpa died long before you were even born.” She put her hand on Minho’s shoulder, but it didn’t make him feel any better. Someone in the Remnant Nation still could have killed him.

  “At home?” Minho asked.

  Roxy shook her head slowly. “He died while traveling.” Minho knew it. He took the controls back over and she stepped aside. “But his life wasn’t just his. His life was also in each and every one of those books he read. He lived hundreds of lives, and he died hundreds of deaths every time one of those stories ended.” She took a deep breath. “He lived a long, good life.”

  Minho couldn’t let it go. “But it’s possible he wandered near the fortress . . .”

  She finally gave in. “I guess anything’s possible.” He stared at the ocean ahead. The vast, empty, ocean. The water went on so far that not even something as big as the Remnant Nation could control it. “Minho?”

  The Orphan looked at her.

  “Why’s this bothering you so much?”

  He wasn’t sure exactly. Something about being on the other side of the wall made life feel different. Waves. Ripples. The more days he spent training himself not to kill people, the more he started to regret the times he did. “Anyone who touched our borders. . . . We were instructed to not let them say more than three words before shooting.” He’d always broken that rule. He’d let them say a sentence or two, because every man deserved to speak before they died.

  “Why only three words?”

  “Just a rule. Lots of rules.” Minho looked over his shoulder to make sure Orange wasn’t on deck to hear. “I’d always let them say more, though.” Trespassers would either insist they weren’t infected or they’d beg for the Nation’s help for someone who was infected. Someone they loved. “Everyone. . . . They all had a story to tell.”

  Roxy sighed. “At least you were different enough to recognize such a thing.”

  Minho wanted a change of subject. Anything to stop Roxy from picturing him killing trespassers. “What about the books? Your grandpa’s books?” he asked awkwardly.

  “Oh, I still have them. Well, had them. Most of them are back at the house where you found me.”

  The Orphan remembered seeing lots of books on shelves when she welcomed him in for a meal. Somehow, thinking of Roxy leaving all of her grandfather’s stories behind felt like more of a death than all of the intruders he’d killed put together. “You left all his books behind to come with me?”

  “Of course!” Roxy said. “Those stories will be there. I know most of them by heart, anyway. But in this story . . .” She hugged Minho tighter than anyone had ever put their arms around him before. She hugged him like Minho had seen Dominic hug Jackie before they left her behind. His reflexes tightened. He fought the urge to twist her wrist and flip her to the ground. “In this story, it’s a true adventure. And in this adventure, I get to have a son.”

  The Orphan named Minho would never get tired of hearing her say that.

  And instead of flipping her and breaking her arm, like every instinct within him screamed to do, he did the exact opposite.

  The Orphan hugged her back.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Losing Grip

  Flying the Berg back to Alaska was more difficult than he’d imagined. The stab wound near his kidney had stopped bleeding but the wound in his mind only grew. Gaps of time were missing. Memories. Lost. Second-guessing everything. Madness, as Alexandra would say.

  Complete Crank-filled Madness.

  The shock was wearing off.

  He swerved the Berg and took another swig of the canteen he’d filled with turmeric water. He choked down the pain-killing and bacteria-stopping concoction. It tasted like armpits, as bitter and pungent as the rust-colored spice looked. A warmth within his mouth and throat made him cough, but Nicholas had taught him long ago that the spice aided in calming inflammation. Always keep a jar of turmeric on hand, Dear Mikhail, Nicholas would say.

  Mikhail could not remember if the spice was meant to be used on open wounds or just internally, so he did both. Maybe it was neither. Who the hell knew? Not Mikhail. He guided the Berg back to the edge of the mountains outside of New Petersburg. As long as he kept the wound from getting infected, he’d live despite the loss of blood. If he could remember his landing path. Where was his landing path? He needed to get to his very own safe haven. The cabin in the woods that no one, not even and especially Alexandra, knew about. The one he’d built high enough above sea level to watch the war unfold.

  He took a deep breath, tried to think hard, but he had so many questions still. What did Nicholas mean when he’d said that trauma could affect his brain? His personality? SQUUUEEEE . . . SQUUUEEEE. . . . The squeals of the pig echoed in Mikhail’s mind.

  But there was no pig on board.

  Madness.

  SQUUUEEEE

  Mikhail was going crazy. Nicholas warned him that could happen. Infected trauma. Inflicted? Inflicted trauma. That was it.

  The war would continue. The Remnant Nation had the coordinates and the time. As long as the Crank Army held itself together, literally and figuratively, the Evolution could still be stopped. He laughed to himself as he swerved the Berg back and forth. SQUUUEEEE. The pig in Mikhail’s mind, his own wild boar of a soul screamed to be freed. The future of the world depended on Cranks. Cranks! Laughable. Complete Madness. He should have shot every single one of them deadie dead dead back in the bunker, but he couldn’t. He didn’t shoot them deadie dead dead because he’d have been killing himself. All he’d worked for. Gone. The Gone.

  Where was he going, again? The cabin. He had to land and get to the cabin.

  He steered the Berg like a proper captain and took another sip of turmeric water.

  The Goddess stirred her tea, staring deeply into the tea leaves as if they held some sort of answer, but there was nothing there that could calm her mind. Mannus had survived the boat ride. Of course he did. Those women at the Villa may have known more about creating the Cure than her, but Alexa knew more about living it.

  She knew the Evolution was good.

  It was already inside of her.

  She recited the digits in her mind. She’d been able to keep the women at the Villa from destroying everything, but only temporarily.

  “Goddess?” Flint opened the door without a knock. Maybe he’d knocked and she just hadn’t heard it over her mind’s buzzing. Regardless, the man made it far too easy for her to take out any small frustration on him.