Juneau starts laughing. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. When you’re in a group, you offer your skills for the use and survival of the group. You don’t pretend you don’t have them. It’s not only disingenuous, it’s withholding your donation to the common good.”

“Is everyone in your clan like this, or are you the only one who hasn’t been socially conditioned to act like a normal person?”

“That depends on your definition of normal,” she shoots back, and then bites her lip. “I suppose a bit of both. Everyone knows one another’s strengths and weaknesses because they’re vital to our survival. But also, since I was five, I was expected to lead the clan. To be the clan Sage. So everyone expected me to be capable. False modesty would have been ridiculous.”

I like the fact that Juneau listened to me, so I try to understand what she’s explaining. To understand the role she had . . . that she still does. It’s the reason she’s like she is. And it’s the reason we’re here: because of this heavy burden she’s always carried.

Her clan would expect her to try to save them. So that’s exactly what she’s going to do.

And in order for her to fully trust me, I’m going to have to sacrifice some of my own habits. Number one being my defense mechanisms. I’ve already sworn to myself not to hide my feelings behind jokes. Now she wants me to be completely honest with her about myself. Which means being vulnerable to getting hurt. Again.

What can be worse than your own mother abandoning you? I think, my gut twisting as the thought barges in from where it hides in my subconscious. And the answer comes with a double blow to my solar plexus: the girl you’ve fallen for doing the same damn thing.

19

JUNEAU

WE DRIVE THE REST OF THE WAY IN SILENCE. I’M trying to process what Miles told me about how people in the “outside world” behave. It sheds a whole new light on him, and the way he acts . . . the way he’s been acting, ever since he went through the Rite.

He admits that he hides things. He covers himself up. He shows the version of himself that he wants others to see. Which means that there could be a whole sea of thoughts, emotions . . . fears hiding behind his blasé charm.

A voice in my head tells me that even though I criticized him for not being honest, I’m worse than he is. I let my duty toward my clan override who I am and what I want for myself. And I haven’t only been pretending to my clan about it . . . I’ve been lying to myself.

As soon as that thought bursts its way into my consciousness, I push it back out and lock the door.

It takes us another tense half hour of driving on the main road as we watch for any vehicles approaching, either from Vaughn or from the direction of the ranch. When we pull off onto the one-lane road leading to the mountains, we both breathe a sigh of relief. Another half hour and we’re driving up into the foothills, where scattered yucca plants grow like spiky green porcupines.

The road finally ends in a dirt path that stops abruptly at the base of a butte. We go off-road for the last bit, and do our best to hide the truck behind a rocky outcrop. There is nothing in sight—no houses, no cars, no phone, no electricity lines. It’s only us and nature. Just the way I like it.

I step out of the car and the desert heat slams me in the face. We’re just a few hours south of where we camped last night, but the temperature is noticeably hotter. I strip back down to my tank top, then pull a pair of jeans out of my pack. Taking my bowie knife, I cut off the legs, halfway up the thigh, and then roll the hem up twice to keep it from fraying. Unzipping the pair of jeans I’m wearing, I start changing into my new shorts. Miles sees and abruptly turns around, supposedly to give me privacy.

“Miles. You’ve seen me naked,” I remind him.

“Although technically true, we were in the tent and it was unfortunately very dark,” he responds, but keeps his back toward me.

“I went swimming in my underwear just yesterday, and my semi-nudity didn’t seem to bother you then,” I say with a smile.

“You were treating it like a bathing suit,” he says. “You’re changing clothes now, and when it’s under your clothes, it counts as lingerie.”

I laugh. “You’re a prude, Miles Blackwell.”

“I most definitely am not a prude,” he insists, and forces himself to turn around. But by this time I’ve got my new shorts on, so there’s nothing to see. “I would describe most of my friends as letches,” Miles continues. “I, on the other hand, have always prided myself on being a gentleman. And unless you are intentionally undressing for my benefit, I’d prefer not to take the experience for granted.”

“All just pretty words,” I say, but catch myself blushing.

Miles notices, and crows, “See, you do prefer gentlemen to wild men! Admit it!”

Ignoring his taunt, I clear my throat, picking up the knife, and gesture to his jeans. “Do you want me to make yours into shorts, too?”

“Gentlemen don’t wear cutoffs,” he says, crossing his arms defensively.

“So you’re basing your choice on fashion, and not the fact that it’s about ninety degrees out?” I ask.

“Of course not,” Miles says. He nods up toward the mountaintop. “I was just thinking of how it’ll probably get cold up there at night, and I’d rather be too hot now than cold later.”

“Right . . . ,” I say skeptically.