“What’s in there?” he asked, and Frypan pointed to the bottom corner of the glass pod. The curtain was flipped up just a bit, slightly revealing the contents of the room.

  But Isaac couldn’t really see anything.

  “Just wait . . .” Old Man Frypan whispered and watched.

  Isaac waited.

  He didn’t know what he was looking for, but nothing happened.

  Until a flash of metal moved within the visible space. Something like Isaac had never seen before. Brighter than any metal he’d ever hammered on the forge. Sharp. Jagged.

  “What is that thing?”

  “That is something I never wanted to see again.” The fear in Frypan’s face highlighted every wrinkle and every age spot. “That, my friend, is a Griever.”

  Isaac turned back to the pod but the Griever’s leg or arm, whatever it was, had moved on. He could only reach into his imagination for the stories Frypan and the elders told of the Glade and the Grievers coming after them, stinging the Gladers with a variation of the Flare. Nightmares come to life. Could that really be a live Griever in there? Seemed almost impossible, like a fairy tale. He turned to Frypan. “What’s the longest you think two potatoes can simmer in a stew before they get mashed?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Maybe a day at most.”

  “Whether they’re true immunes or not, this Kletter lady sounds a lot like the Grief Bearers. I don’t trust any of it.” Orange was sitting on the captain’s bench and flipping through the captain’s log. Minho had spent two nights looking at the book in detail but couldn’t string enough words together to form an opinion, other than the same conclusion that Orange had just come to.

  “You never trusted the Grief Bearers? Even before that crazy stunt on the Berg?” Minho focused on the waters ahead. It wasn’t long ago that the Grief Bearers of Remnant Nation had sent him away so that he could become one of them, one of their peers, but he’d known before they shoved him off a cliff that he didn’t want that. Not only did they torture children for the sake of rising up one day to kill the Godhead, but Minho didn't want to kill the Godhead—he wanted to join them and help the world evolve. But of course, he couldn’t tell Orange that. Evolution—even the mention of the word—was blasphemy within the Orphan Army.

  “Something about them never felt right.” Orange handed over the captain’s log and picked up her binoculars.

  Minho relaxed behind the captain’s wheel.

  Unlike everyone else on the boat, Orange could watch for whales and other ships ahead without trying to fill the space between them with words. It was just like they were back on the wall guarding the Remnant Nation—except no one would die. Hopefully. Meanwhile, Minho could decompress in silence. He didn’t have to work so hard to understand the dynamics of the group or to fight his soldier instincts. When it was just him and Orange, he could be himself—the Orphan named Minho.

  He watched the horizon as he steered North-East. The sounds of the ocean grew on him, like the wet scraping the bottom of the ship made as it cut through the water. The whoosh of the wind over the deck. Even the way Dominic’s cheerful voice carried up to the deck like an echo from the cabin below.

  Minho would miss all of this when they got to Alaska.

  Orange lowered her binoculars and turned to him with a confession. “Skinny and I never said anything out loud because we didn’t want to get reinforced, but . . . once you left, we knew you wouldn’t come back.”

  “Really?” The notion brought him peace, like an affirmation that he’d made the right decision. He wondered if the Grief Bearers had known, too. If that’s why they’d fastened his cordage so tight. Why they’d pushed him so hard off the cliff. Why they came after him.

  Orange nodded. “Yeah. We were jealous.”

  He’d never dreamed that anyone would even notice his absence, let alone be jealous of it.

  “Have you thought about how you’re going to do it?” she asked. “Kill the Godhead?”

  “No.” It wasn’t a lie. He looked at her for a reaction, but she didn’t have one. Maybe it was the number of days they’d spent on the open ocean, but Minho decided to test Orange. “What do you think Evolution is really about?” Her eyes got big with surprise. “Sorry, it’s just something I think about sometimes . . .” He returned his attention to the ocean ahead of them.

  “I don’t know . . .” Orange wasn’t accustomed to having permission to think on her own about the subject. But if she had time to think about Crank Armies, surely she would have thought about the Evolution and what it was or wasn’t. “I guess it could be what we were told, or it could be something completely different. I only know one thing for sure. I’m never stepping foot back in that place.”

  “Me, neither.” The walls of the Remnant Nation were ones he’d never see again. Ever. But as soon as he said it, he felt a pang in his gut. Kit.

  “What’s wrong?” Orange asked. “Your face just did a thing.”

  “Nothing. Just remembered something I left back there.”

  “Minho, no weapon, artifact, or internal organ is worth going back for.”

  “How about a person? A little boy named Kit.” He couldn’t believe he was telling this story to Orange but if anyone could understand how he felt, it would be her. “One night I was walking through the tunnels of Hell and heard something that sounded like a dying dog. I saved him, I think.” Minho wasn’t sure how long the boy would have lived after such a beating; maybe he should’ve just put the kid out of his misery. What the Remnant Nation called “reinforcement” was just another version of death, beating their will and subordination far below the surface. Saving Kit was the first time Minho went against the things he’d been taught.

  Leaving the Remnant Nation and never going back was the second.

  Orange seemed genuinely impressed. “Wow. Can’t believe they didn’t kill you on the spot for that.”

  “I don’t think it was a Grief Bearer that hurt him. Whoever it was ran away.”

  Orange set her binoculars on the bench. “You should feel proud of that memory, not sad.”

  The Orphan shook his head. Pride had nothing to do with it. “When I asked the boy his name he said, Kit. But when he asked me back, I told him I didn’t have one.” Shame. In the same moment of his life where he’d shown the most courage, he also displayed the most cowardice.

  He took a deep breath.

  “You couldn’t have, and he shouldn’t have told you his name. That’s probably why he was beaten, for giving himself a name. You know that.” She crossed her arms at this and shook her head. Minho knew she’d understand. He needed to stop berating himself for it, but not telling Kit his name lingered as his one regret. “Gotta just try to forget about it. When I was a kid, I got reinforcement real bad like that.”

  “You did?” He looked her up and down for visible scars, but she was pretty spared.

  He shook his head. “Not beat like this kid was.”

  “No?” Orange turned away from Minho and lifted up the bottom of her shirt. Across her lower back were three-inch-thick scar lines that looked like she’d been nearly cut in half. “I was ten. They heard me sing.” She lowered her shirt and faced him again.

  “Damn, Orange. You’re tougher than I thought.” That image would be impossible to get out of his mind. Slashes. All for singing? But if Orange could survive that, then there was hope for Kit too. Minho tried to move on. “Even so, as the captain of the ship, I give you permission to slap Dominic across the head anytime he starts singing again.”

  Orange smiled, leaned into the captain’s wheel, and whispered, “He’s awful, right? Like a seagull squawking over a dead fish.”

  Minho shook his head, his face pained. “I can’t believe we’ve listened to him hum and holler this whole trip and you’ve been holding back on us. You should sing. Over him, with him, but preferably instead of him.”

  “Eh, maybe.” She shrugged, not quite able to move on.

  The Orphan understood. He once had a beating so hard he didn’t talk for a month. Minho felt intrusive even thinking about it, but he had to ask her. He slowed down the ship. Orange deserved his full attention for this next question.

  “What’s your name?” His eyes focused on hers.

  Orange tilted her head in confusion.

  “Your name?”

  She trembled slightly, as if a Priestess could slap her right now for even thinking about it, but the Remnant Nation had no hold over them now, out here in the middle of the ocean. They were free. She had to have a name.

  “You know my name. It’s Orange.”

  “Orange is a nickname, not a real name.” He wanted to know what this girl, standing in front of him with scars from singing, called herself inside her own mind.

  “Yeah, but nicknames are better than real names because only friends call you by your nickname.” She nudged him. “Which means I have friends.”

  Minho took it in like the slow-moving waves ahead of them. He wondered if having a nickname was the one true measure of friendship—and if he’d ever have a true friend. Orange interrupted his thoughts, “Just like Skinny and I always called you Happy.”

  Minho searched his memory for a time when Skinny would have called him that.

  He could only vaguely place it.

  “Happy?” It wasn’t anything he would have called himself.

  “Yeah,” Orange squinted at Minho, “Everyone calls you Happy.” She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted across the boat to the others climbing on deck from below, “Hey Dom, what’s Minho’s nickname?”

  Dominic was all too enthused to answer. “Happy!” He waved from across the deck. “She told us on the Berg. Took actually meeting you for me to really get it.” Then, completely unprompted, unwarranted, and unwelcomed, Dominic started singing a song about being happy while the others clapped along.

  Minho couldn’t help but smile. He moved the lever to pick up speed. Roxy and Miyoko clapped enthusiastically, letting out hoots and hollers to go with the song.

  Minho, the Orphan with no name, now had two names.

  One he chose. And one he just might grow into.

  Happy.

  Anchoring close to shore before sunset helped the Maze Cutter stay safe while Minho and Orange rested, but Sadina hated how much the ship rocked back and forth from the incoming waves. She leaned against a bunk and closed her eyes while the others prepped dinner.

  “Can’t you do that on deck?” Miyoko asked Dominic, “You’re getting fish slop everywhere and it smells terrible. Worse than you.”

  “Jackie would be vomiting if she were here, that’s for sure,” Trish added.

  Sadina tried to block out the noise and commotion, but thinking about Jackie made her think about Isaac which made her think about her mom and Old Man Frypan. Her heart ached.

  Dominic was never fazed. “I cook them down here so it makes more sense to prep them down here. I like the smell! Plus the deck is extra windy today.”

  “Oh that’s right, Dom gets cold,” Miyoko teased. Sadina opened her eyes.

  “Hey.” Dominic stood tall with a fish head in his hand. “I didn’t know when we packed for this adventure that we’d be freezing our asses and our heads off.” He put the fish on his own head, mouth down, like a hat.

  “Gross. Stop.” Miyoko waved.

  “What? I’m the Godhead of fish.”

  “You’re the Godhead of nothing.” She swatted the fish from his head.

  Trish laughed and looked to Sadina, but Sadina, worried about her mom, didn’t feel like laughing. Today, for some reason, she felt like something bad was about to happen. She kept telling herself that they likely made it to the Villa safe and sound, but not knowing what was really going on only made the feeling worse—it gave that bad feeling room to spread out and take over.

  “You look like you’re going to throw up,” Trish said as she came over to Sadina.

  “I’m not seasick, but I don’t feel good.” She wasn’t nauseous. But she wasn’t right. It came from a different place in her gut. “I think I’ll go up for some air.”

  “And I shall honor your space.” Trish smiled and blew her a kiss. She was taking their talk particularly well, which Sadina was thankful for. It seemed like the farther the Maze Cutter got from her mom, the sicker she felt and the more space she needed.

  Sadina climbed the steps to the deck; her eyes squinted at the change in brightness. The sun setting off the water was blinding, a brilliant contrast to the dim cabin below. And Dominic was right; it was cold. She walked over to Orange and Roxy along the railing.

  “Hey,” Orange said; her fair skin looked redder by the day. “What’s wrong? You going to be sick?”

  “No, just. . . I don’t know. I have a bad feeling that something might happen to my mom.” Sadina unloaded this before even thinking that something had most definitely happened to Orange and Minho’s moms—and dads. “Sorry, that was insensitive.”

  “It’s okay. We grew up knowing our moms were prolly dead in Flare pits somewhere. That’s why this sunburn doesn’t bother me. It could be worse.” At times, the things Orange and Minho said felt dark—and this was one of those times.

  “I just can’t shake the feeling that something’s really wrong,” Sadina said again as Minho walked over carrying ropes in his arms.

  “Why didn’t you stay behind then? Stay with your mom?” Minho always caught Sadina off guard. He was so direct with his questions in a tone that sounded like he judged her. Truth was, his comment hit her so hard because she hadn’t even considered staying behind. The pressure of their mission, the call to Alaska was so great—it didn’t feel like not going was an option. But he was right—it had been. Isaac didn’t think twice about staying with her mom so that she could go to Alaska. She could have stayed behind, too.

  “I don’t know. I mean . . . the Cure and all, I think if we get to the Godhead and we can help them with that, then—”

  “But if you’re the Cure, shouldn’t you have stayed with her?” Minho pushed further and tears just about welled up in Sadina’s eyes.

  “But she doesn’t have the Flare, right?” Sadina looked at Minho, Roxy, and Orange. Did they know something she didn’t? Roxy took a deep breath and shrugged. What did that mean? “Roxy?” She searched the woman’s body language.

  “It’s okay sweetie, you weren’t wrong to leave her. You did what you felt you needed to do. Just . . . something that Kletter lady wrote in the log made Minho wonder about things.” She put her arm lovingly around Sadina’s shoulders.

  “Wonder what?” She examined each of their faces for a clue.

  Orange didn’t say anything.

  Minho just looked at Roxy.

  Sadina shrugged off Roxy’s arm. “What is it? What did Kletter write?”

  Roxy sighed and threw her arms up. “Well, I don’t know, I can only read a few words here and there, but she chronicled a lot about infection and expiration, and . . .” She looked at Minho and he nodded. “And she wrote a couple pages about your mom.”

  “She what?” The waves against the boat rocked Sadina extra hard. “What did it say?”

  Minho handed her the captain’s log.

  “We can’t understand it, but back here,” Roxy pointed, “these pages are where she wrote Señora Cowan a couple times next to infección.”

  Sadina looked down at the journal and Kletter’s stupid, sloppy, handwriting. She stared at the words surrounding ‘Señora Cowan’ and wished they could have unjumbled themselves to make sense, but they didn’t. That feeling deep in her gut, the one that said something is wrong, wasn’t a premonition—it was regret. She should have stayed with her mom. Sadina handed the book back to Minho and tears fell from her eyes. Roxy wrapped her in a hug. Sadina wished Trish had followed her up to deck and not given her space. She couldn’t have felt more wrong. She was one big mess. “I shouldn’t have come.”

  “You’ve got too much on your shoulders, girl.” Roxy rocked Sadina back and forth in a hug. “It’s okay. You’re doing what you believe is right, and Minho didn’t mean to make you cry—did he?” She glared at her adopted son, stern eyes held with the necessary pause for an apology.

  “I’m sorry,” Minho said. “I just wondered why you didn’t stay.” What a way with words. Sadina stared into the sunset and let the tears fall.

  “It’ll be okay,” Orange said. But as sunburned as Orange’s skin looked, that’s how Sadina’s heart felt.

  “Just try to do a sniper move,” Minho said.

  “I don’t think shooting anyone is the answer here.” Roxy continued to rock Sadina.

  Orange nodded her head as if she knew. “No, that is a good idea.” She held her hands out. “To stay calm under pressure we did breathing exercises.” Roxy loosened her arms around Sadina. “Before you shoot at a trespasser or an animal, you always take in a lung full of air through your nose, and let it out real slow through your mouth. Then the rifle and you are steady enough for a shot.”

  “But I’m not going to shoot anyone.” Sadina shook her head. “No, thanks.”

  “It’s not about pulling the trigger,” Minho said. “It’s about letting everything go in that breath, out of your mouth so your body can steady. You put every anxiety, every worry, every thought you ever had in your whole life into that exhale. And you push it out of you to somewhere else.” He pointed far off into the horizon.

  “Go on, try it,” Roxy said. “Can’t hurt.” And they all waited for Sadina to breathe. It felt silly.

  She wiped her eyes and took a slow inhale through her nose and held her breath, long enough to think about everything she needed to put into her exhale to let go. Worries about her mom being alive. Seeing her again. Ever seeing Isaac again. Living up to Old Man Frypan’s legacy. Living up to her great uncle Newt’s legacy. Being a part of the Cure. Meeting the Godhead. All of it at once.

  And then Sadina let it out in a slow whoosh. She released all the worries and pressure into the air to float away somewhere else. She pictured those thoughts skimming along the top of the ocean, and pictured the same tide that rocked the ship so roughly, taking them away. Far, far away.