I miss my dad. I miss Oliver, too.

An ache throbs at the back of my throat, and I swallow hard as I make myself keep walking. Keep moving, because even if there’s nothing to keep the ghosts that haunt me at bay, I still have a job to finish. I have a boy to save.

Thinking about Logan eases the ache in my throat and settles some of the unease that lurks within me. I think of his ink-stained fingers and how safe I feel when he wraps his hand around mine, pressing our palms together. I think of the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs. The way he watches others so carefully, as if he thinks that with enough data, he can predict who will hurt him and who will love him instead.

I wonder if he predicted the way my heart thuds against my chest when I think of his body leaning against mine, his breath tangled in my hair, his heat soaking into me like a blanket I wear beneath my skin. I wonder if all the years he spent observing me at Oliver’s, and later at my own house, prepared him for the way he lives in a space inside of me that feels like it was always meant to be his.

I hope he knows that I would push myself to my limits to find him because he matters more to me than making Ian pay for his crimes, or taking James Rowan out of power, or even killing the Commander. The last time I spoke to Logan, we were rushing to get out of Lankenshire’s hospital so we could find Ian. I didn’t have a chance to tell him why I’d become so distant after Sylph’s death, and that I was fighting to break through my silence and feel again. I couldn’t show him that even though I’m far from better, I’ve found the courage to face what hurts me so that I can overcome it.

I duck beneath a curtain of rubbery kudzu vines, and catch a glimpse of Rowansmark, illuminated by the westward moving sun that spreads across the city’s wall like golden syrup. Using the dagger, I slice off a long length of kudzu and wrap it around my waist several times. I don’t have rope, so the thick kudzu will have to do.

My stomach growls, and I have to grab on to the trunk of an ancient walnut tree as my head spins. I need food, but I’m in no condition to hunt. The walnuts in the trees that are scattered around me won’t ripen until September. The acorns on the oak trees would require blanching, and I don’t dare try to light a fire. Clusters of mushrooms grow out of fallen tree trunks throughout the area, but I’m not sure if they’re edible or not. Dad and I never traveled south of Rowansmark, and we usually steered clear of mushrooms anyway, because one wrong choice could mean a painful death.

Doing my best to ignore the ache in my stomach and the slight ringing in my ears, I push forward, holding on to tree trunks for balance as I wade through thick underbrush. The sun is just beginning to set when I finally find something I can eat.

A field of wild grass is choked with thistles. A stream runs through it, and the water looks clear and tastes clean. I strip off my clothes, rinse them, and then rinse myself as well. Laying out my clothes to dry as much as possible, I go after the thistles. It will take work to get to the edible part of the plant, but it’s better than starving. I crouch beside a few plants and saw through the base of them with the dagger. Then I carefully use the dagger to strip away the outer skin and reveal the stalk inside each stem. The stalks are tough to chew, and the taste is bland, but they’re filling. I eat my way through two small plants before stopping.

With my stomach satisfied, I pull on my damp tunic and pants and then turn my attention to finding a place to set up camp. I need to be able to see movement in the Wasteland north of Rowansmark. I don’t know how else to track Logan. I don’t have a tracking device for him. I don’t know exactly which path he’ll take through the Wasteland. All I can do is climb the highest tree around, pay attention, and hope.

I move west until stars are pricking the sky, and Rowansmark is a silent bulk of stone and lit torches less than two hundred yards behind me. I’m far enough into the Wasteland not to worry about being seen by guards patrolling the city’s wall, but close enough to where the Wasteland meets the field of flat, damp ground that surrounds the city on three sides that if anyone approaches the city through the forest, I should hear them before they show themselves to the guards.

I find an oak tree that stretches so far toward the sky, I can’t see the top of it from the ground. Putting my dagger back into the sheath inside my boot, I reach up toward the lowest branch and jump.

My hands wrap around the rough bark for a split second, and pain tears through my back and explodes throughout my body. I cry out and drop to the ground, cradling my right arm against me and breathing through my teeth as something warm and wet soaks through the back of my tunic. I’ve torn open some of my wounds, and the muscle in my right arm won’t grip anything for very long. Tears gather in my eyes and spill down my face in salty trails as I slowly push myself to my feet and pull my bloody tunic away from my skin for a moment.

Logan is coming. I have to be able to warn him. I am going up this tree no matter what it costs me.

Careful not to tear through any more of the healing wounds on my back, I bend down and retrieve the dagger. If I can’t jump up to the lowest branch and swing my body into the tree, I’m going to have to climb it the hard way. It will leave an obvious trail, but I don’t have another choice.

Driving the dagger into the trunk of the tree at eye level, I wrap both of my hands around its hilt, letting my left hand take the brunt of my weight, and pull myself up. Hugging the trunk with my right arm and my legs, I pull the dagger free with my left hand, climb by digging the weapon into the bark for leverage, and then shinny my way up, inch by painful inch.