Face scarlet, he turns to the sergeant and his two companions, who climb into the jeep roaring with laughter. “Goddamn it, you could have killed me, Sarge!” he yells, and though I can see he is shaking, I’m not sure if it’s from fear or rage. Probably both.

“Get your fat ass in the jeep,” the driver calls, and starts driving off slowly without him. Sanders runs, grabs the side of the vehicle, and swings himself over to land in the backseat.

I sit down, my back to the boulder. Unscrewing the top of my canteen, I take a swig, careful not to drink too much. I’ve been hiking since before dawn, and have eight more hours before nightfall. If my estimates are right, I’m halfway to where the two rivers end. And if my hunch is correct, that is where I’ll find my people.

I think of Miles and wonder what he thought of my letter. I’m sure it hurt his feelings, but I didn’t want him to follow me. And although I didn’t come out and say it, I’m sure he read between the lines. I had no other choice. Miles would only have slowed me down. He could have gotten us captured. Or worse. Besides, knowing that he’s alive and waiting for me is additional motivation for me to find my clan and get them out of there as soon as possible. And after that? I wonder.

I will go wherever my clan decides. Miles and I will say good-bye, and he will return home, make amends with his dad, and go to college. Get on with his life. That’s what has to happen—I know it like I know my own name. So why does it make my heart twist painfully in my chest?

I can’t think about that now. I need to stay focused. I scan the horizon and spot my next hiding place—a large patch of yucca in the distance. I adjust my backpack, and, unable to maintain my camouflage without concentration, I let it fade and get ready to run.

28

MILES

I CRUMPLE UP THE PAPER AND THROW IT ACROSS the clearing. “Fucking hell!” I yell. But there is no one to hear, and my words feel as empty as the hole in my chest.

Juneau didn’t need to say it. I know what she was thinking. She doesn’t want me along because she knows—we know—that if it comes down to fighting in the desert, instead of using the truck for surveillance and escape, I will be a liability.

Even if I always knew that I wasn’t Juneau’s equal, the fact that my incompetence is so insurmountable that she left me behind just confirms my utter lameness. I stop these thoughts in their tracks. I’m not utterly lame, I tell myself. I am exponentially less lame then a few weeks ago; Juneau said it herself. I can help her. I know I can. She needs me. I won’t let her push me away just to protect me.

I pace the clearing, debating what to do. The sun is shining in through the trees at an angle, well up above the horizon. When did Juneau say the sun rose? Six a.m.? And if the sun is directly overhead at noon, then I guess it’s around ten in the morning. Juneau’s probably been gone since dawn, if not earlier. Even if I ignore her request and follow her, it will be impossible to catch up with her at this point.

I hold my head in my hands, squeezing hard, and let out a roar of frustration. What do I do? Can Juneau really free her clan by herself, or is she walking into a trap? What can I actually do to help? I can’t just sit around and wait. But if I go after her, I could be a detriment: either slow her down or get her captured.

I head to the top of the mountain, ignoring the branches that whip painfully against my arms, the brambles that poke me through my jeans. And when I reach the crest, I find a rocky outcrop and sit down, surveying the land spread before me like a giant Western movie set. The woods thin out gradually as the land levels into foothills, until there are no more trees—only a dry brownish-green pastureland that quickly turns into desert scrub. Deer-type animals graze peacefully in the distance. It would look like they were living in some kind of untouched-by-civilization Disneyesque utopia, if it weren’t for the twenty-foot fence sectioning off the ranch.

As I sit, my anger and shame melt away and my thoughts become clearer. What are my options? Stay or leave. And if I leave, I’ll have to find a plan of my own since I can’t catch up with Juneau.

Think about what advantages nature gives us, I hear her say. What advantages do I have? Although I can shoot a tree, I’ve never aimed at a moving target. And although I can build a fire, I’m not a wilderness survivalist like her. But I have one advantage she doesn’t know about: I can Read. At least, I did it once. And I am determined to find out what that means. To add it to my short list of skills.

I stand and let the wind whip my hair around, close my eyes and breathe in the pure mountain air. I can be one with nature, I think. And then I open my eyes and laugh. Like hell I can. I’ll let Juneau be one with nature. I’ll just be myself.

Back at the campsite, I rifle through our supplies. Juneau left the tent and bedding, the cooking equipment, flashlights and dishes, and most of the food. It looks like she took the backpack, most of the water, and some food. The knife and her crossbow are gone.

My crossbow, however, lies where I left it last night by the fire. I decide to fit in one last practice with a tree before potentially having to aim it at live targets. At the edge of the clearing, I cock the bowstring and load a bolt into the tiller, like Juneau showed me yesterday. Pulling the crossbow up to my chin, I eye a tree a few yards away with a large, round knot about halfway up. Aiming for the knot, I squeeze the trigger and launch a bolt in its direction. Then one after another, I cock and load and fire, until all six of the arrows are embedded in the tree, although unfortunately nowhere near the knot.