When Drake and Smithson finish with the bedrolls, they sit beside me. Drake breathes heavily and massages his leg, though he’s quick to smile when I catch his eye. Smithson, on the other hand, sits locked in the same brooding silence that has followed him since Lankenshire. Connor thinks Smithson’s silence means he doesn’t know what to say. Maybe he doesn’t. Or maybe he’s silent because grieving for Sylph has become an all-consuming task. I saw what happened to Rachel when she locked herself inside her head with the ghosts of those she’d lost. I can’t stand to see the same thing happen to Smithson. Pressure builds at the back of my throat as I try to figure out how to reach him.

“Smithson, I can tell that things are hard for you,” I say, and then curse myself for stating something so obvious and stupid. “I mean . . . you’re so . . . it’s just that . . .” I drag in a deep breath and make myself meet his eyes. “I’m sorry. About Sylph. About not catching Ian in time. I wish—”

“I wish, too, but it doesn’t do me any good.” Smithson’s voice is rough, and he looks at the ground.

“I’m sorry.” My words are helpless to convey the depth of regret and guilt that churns through me.

“I know.” He gets up and stalks toward the stream, where he leans against his horse. Nola approaches him, wraps a hand around his arm, and stands quietly beside him.

“She has a way with people,” Drake says. “If anyone can help him, my Nola can.”

I nod, but I don’t know what to say. I’ve never known what to say. Words are so much harder to navigate than the clear-cut scientific principles I’m so at home with. Technology doesn’t care if you say one thing even though you meant another. It doesn’t search for hidden meanings, or dissect your body language looking for clues. It just obeys the rules that govern it. Simple. Uncomplicated. Easy.

I pull out one of the stolen transmitters and fiddle with the wires, grateful to have something I can actually fix. The last of the daylight is waning quickly. If I want to make any progress on the weapon I’m creating to kill the Commander, I have to work fast.

Frankie sits down across from me, unceremoniously dumping an armful of blackberries and clumps of edible roots on Drake’s lap before picking up one of the transmitters and turning it over in his hands to examine the wires that dangle uselessly from its sides.

“You all right?” he asks me.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to lie and say yes, to brush him off and keep my doubts and fears secret, but Connor was right. The things that keep me up at night are too heavy to carry by myself. It’s time to learn how to let others in.

“No, I’m not.” I scrub my hand over my face and try to find the right words. “I get sick every time I think about Rachel, alone with Ian, taking the brunt of his vengeance while I’m going in the opposite direction, hoping I can somehow scrounge up enough troops to give us a fighting chance to beat Rowansmark. I’m afraid to sleep at night because the second I drop my guard, the Commander could betray us. I’m worried the tech I’m building isn’t going to be strong enough to do the job.” I look away from him. “And every time I close my eyes, I see the faces of those who chose me as their leader and then died because my brother wanted to hurt me.”

“Logan—” Drake pushes the food onto his bedroll and claps a hand on my shoulder the way Jared used to when he could see I needed encouragement.

“I keep trying. Thinking. Planning.” I make myself meet his gaze, and then turn to Frankie as well. “I want to believe that if I just try harder, think smarter, and plan better, I can fix all of this, but I can’t. Even if we succeed in bringing Rowansmark down and in making Ian pay for his crimes, nothing will wash those crimes away. I don’t know how to live with the fact that I didn’t catch him in time. That I didn’t save my people.”

Drake’s grip tightens. “You aren’t responsible for Ian—”

“No, but I am responsible for the safety of our people.” I glare at him, though he isn’t the cause of my anger. “I took that responsibility when I agreed to lead us across the Wasteland, and I failed. More than that, I brought danger right to our door.”

“The point is that you tried to protect us.” Drake’s voice is firm.

My fingers clench around the tech I hold until the blood drains from my knuckles. “Is knowing that I tried enough for Smithson?” I look at Frankie. “For you?”

“There it is,” Frankie says. “I was wondering when we were going to get around to this.”

Drake removes his hand from my shoulder and leans toward me.

“I got this one.” Frankie carefully sets the transmitter down, raises his fist, and pokes his finger into my chest. Hard.

“Now, you listen here. That’ll be about enough foolishness out of you.”

I blink and sit up straighter, but he isn’t finished.

“You don’t fool me one bit. Sitting here thinking that all of our misery is yours alone to carry and that you’ve got to come up with all the answers. Thinking that we regret choosing you as our leader, and that if we’d known you were Logan McEntire from Rowansmark with a lunatic for a brother we’d have made a different choice.”

His words strike deep, bruising an already painful wound. I open my mouth to answer, but he isn’t finished.

Quietly he says, “Who you’re related to and where you were born have nothing to do with this. We followed you because you took action against a tyrant when none of us found the courage to do it ourselves. Because you kept your head in a crisis and rescued us. Because you had a plan. You always have a plan. And because you’re the kind of leader who feels responsible when someone on your watch dies, even though you weren’t the cause.”