Since sleep feels impossible, I decide to check the perimeter of the camp once more, even though I’ve already walked it six times. I grab for my boots, careful not to make too much noise. My fingers fumble with my laces as the damp night air seeps into my clothing. I wrap my cloak around my shoulders, and then listen for a moment.

Someone several yards south of me snores in loud, fitful bursts. Beyond the borders of our makeshift camp, the Wasteland hums with life. Crickets chirp, owls hoot, and the occasional animal rustles through the bushes.

Sliding my dagger into the sheath strapped to my left ankle, I leave the shelter. It’s easy to slip away from camp in the middle of the night unnoticed. Too easy. I simply hug the shadows and choose my steps with care.

The first-shift guards are little more than kids themselves and terribly inexperienced, despite the fact that they’ve been training with Rachel, Quinn, and Willow for almost four weeks now. The oldest is eighteen. The youngest, Donny, the one who gallantly offered to Claim Willow, swears he’s fifteen. He’s lying, but I’m too desperate to argue. The older, more experienced guards spent all day patrolling the edges of our path as we traveled, digging wagon wheels out of mud, and generally wearing themselves out with what seemed like a hundred little things. I made the decision to let them sleep for a few hours before I call them up for the early-morning guard shift, because I know tomorrow they’ll be wearing themselves out all over again.

Creeping along the back of our makeshift shelters, I step carefully to minimize the crunch of my boots against the springy undergrowth that spreads along the base of the rock like a moss-green apron. With every step, my mind restlessly chews at the problems facing me.

I need to calm down. I need to think. I need to distance myself from the camp for a few minutes and just breathe until my thoughts settle and I can see things clearly.

Every guard I’ve posted is under strict orders to raise hell if they see even a hint of movement. Better a false alarm than to be caught unaware. It worries me that I’ve moved past most of the shelters without alerting a single guard. Not that I want to be caught. But still . . . I’m trusting kids to keep us safe. Kids. Never mind that I’m only nineteen. I’ve been looking out for myself since the Commander killed my mother and branded me an outcast when I was only six. Most of these boys haven’t faced anything worse than a tongue-lashing their entire lives.

I reach the eastern edge of camp and see Donny, Willow’s hopeful young suitor, slumped against the thick branch that holds up the final tent in this row. I can hear him snoring from five yards away. Barely suppressing a sigh, I crouch down and lay a hand on his shoulder.

“Wake up, Donny.”

He jerks awake, flinging my hand off his shoulder as he sits up. He doesn’t go for his knife. I rub the bridge of my nose and try for the most patient tone of voice I can muster. It’s too much to expect that a handful of sparring sessions would take the place of the kind of training that gave Rachel and me our fighting instincts.

I keep my voice pitched low. “It’s Logan. Where’s your knife?”

“I’m sorry. I’ve only been asleep for a second.” Faint traces of moonlight gleam silver and white against his shaggy brown hair, highlighting the cowlick that waves like a rebellious flag above his left temple. “I’m sorry, Logan.”

“You said that. Now where is your knife?”

He fumbles around at his belt for a few seconds, and I realize his knife is trapped against his waist.

I lean closer and press my finger to his throat. “You’re dead.”

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple scraping against my finger. “I just thought . . . it seemed safer to—”

“Weapon always at the ready, Donny. Always. We don’t want to lose you.”

His cowlick waves earnestly as he nods his head. “Okay. Yes. Weapon ready.”

I pat his shoulder. “Stay awake. You only have another two hours until shift change. We need you alert. Helps if you stand up.”

He nods again and scrambles to his feet. “I won’t let you down. I promise.”

I smile as if I never had a doubt. “I know you won’t.”

“Where are you going?” he asks as I step past the camp’s perimeter and toward the scraggly line of trees that press close to our little clearing on three sides.

“Just for a walk.”

“In the Wasteland?” Uncertainty fills his voice. “There might be . . . things out there. Dangerous things.”

“Yes,” I say. “And I’m one of them.”

“I’ll come with you. Isn’t safe to walk alone.” He shoves his knife into his belt again.

“Weapon at the ready,” I snap.

“Sorry! Sorry.” He fumbles for the knife again.

I draw in a breath and remember how young he is. How innocent he was until the snowball effect of the Commander’s treachery, Rachel’s need for vengeance, and my thirst for justice conspired to rip his childhood from him in one fateful morning.

“I appreciate the offer. But I need you here. Alert. Someone has to watch over the camp. You’re just the man for the job.”

He straightens and holds the knife loosely, blade out, like he’s ready. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know that. Keep that weapon out, Donny.”

I leave him there, moonlight dancing in his shaggy hair and glinting along the edge of a blade I pray he’ll never have to use, and let the shadows swallow me whole as I step into the forest.