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“Did your father teach you?”

  It took so long that Peter had stopped expecting an answer. Joe stared at the tree instead. Finally, he said, “Boggs.”

  Peter grabbed for the long, rounded tube part of the rifle.

  Joe jerked back to the present and pushed Peter’s hand away. “Sit.”

  Peter rolled his eyes and sat on the ground. The damp from the rain soaked his bottom almost immediately. Ew.

  “It’s important to take this seriously. Guns are not toys. Their purpose is to kill.”

  “I know.” Why was Joe harshing on him like a grown-up? “It’s to shoot bad guys like Sanders.”

  “Marcus is in the ground instead of here with us because he thought stupid things like that,” Joe snapped, “because I didn’t remember to tell him. Be quiet and listen.” He picked up a rock and hurled it toward the target tree. It hit the shirt and bounced off. “Killing a person is serious, Peter. It’s something you can’t ever change once it happens.”

  “I know.”

  “We have no right to pick and choose who lives and who dies. Sanders was not a good man. He shot me. He would have sold you and Devin. He planned to kill Flix. All of that is true, but Marcus took Sanders’s life without knowing if he really had to. And because Marcus shot Sanders, someone shot Marcus. And Sadie. And then Aria killed all those people.”

  “But Marcus saved you.” Why debate what Peter didn’t even believe? Something in Joe’s tone, the way he sounded like an adult, made Peter want to argue.

  Joe pressed his thumb to the space between his eyes. “I’m messing this up. I’m not... I’m not a parent, okay? But I need you to understand the responsibility you accept by learning to use a weapon. I didn’t talk to Marcus about this; I need you to hear me.”

  Peter shrugged and poked at the ground. He had parents already. Used to have parents.

  “Taking a life is a horrible tragedy. It doesn’t matter whether the person deserves it or not. The day I met you, I watched three people die — a sort-of good person, a sort-of bad person, and a guy who was just doing his job. Their blood was the same color, Peter, when it all mixed together on the floor. I didn’t even pull the trigger, not once, but every day I think about all the things I could have done differently so none of them had to die. I won’t ever be free of their deaths.”

  This lecture was tweaking Peter off. Momma and Dad had died ugly. That’s what he couldn’t forget. “And I won’t ever be free of the people I could have saved. Don’t talk to me like I don’t understand.”

  Joe sat cross-legged on the ground, facing Peter like an equal, and Peter’s esteem for him climbed. His eyes had lost the hardness they’d had the whole time he was talking. “I don’t want to add to your pain. I just want you to understand that learning to use a weapon like this isn’t a gift; it’s a burden.

  “This” — Joe shook the rifle — “is a last resort. It’s the thing you do when you’ve used your wits and your hands and whatever less-lethal weapon you have and it’s still not enough. It’s what you use when you have no choice.”

  Peter studied Joe. All that sincerity. The steadiness of his bony, too-thin hands. Because he was skipping meals to make sure everyone else had food. He was taking extra guard shifts during the night to make sure everyone else got enough rest. He was protecting them the best he could. Peter could give him this much. “I understand. I’ll take it seriously.”

  Joe grimaced and nodded. “Let’s get started.”

  Peter learned how to slide in a sleek metal magazine from the bottom of the rifle. His fingers clumsy and fumbling, he dropped three bullets before he managed to load one into the rubber-coated slot on top and click the trigger twice to feed the bullet into the firing chamber. The magazine, with its five pre-loaded bullets, seemed a much smarter option, but Joe explained it was important that Peter learn both ways of loading the rifle because they might not always have magazines.

  Peter dipped his fingertip into the single-load opening. “Is it okay to waste bullets here then, teaching me how?”

  “Devin bought so many back at the Maze-On that I’m not worried. Now take a stance and aim toward the shirt, but don’t fire.”

  Peter felt silly, standing poised to attack a shirt, but he did as told. He held the rifle out in front of him. It wobbled and shook.

  Joe skirted behind him and nudged his left foot and shoulder forward. “Put the butt against your shoulder, here.” He pressed the spot with his finger. “You know what your collarbone is?”

  Peter was not stupid like Devin. “I always received top marks at school.”

  “Good. Keep the end of the gun away from your collarbone. There’s not much recoil on this rifle, but you should get in the habit of holding a weapon properly.”

  “Did Boggs teach you all this stuff?”

  Joe shrugged. “I saw Marcus and Devin practice.”

  “So did I, and I don’t know this stuff.”

  Joe focused on the tree. His voice was low. “When I was younger than you are now, Boggs and a couple of his men took me to an old police bunker. It had a firing range. He had his men teach me how to operate a few guns, hit the targets. Then he raped me on the floor. I think he wanted me to believe I was powerful, then get to strip it all away.” He met Peter’s eyes. “Let’s keep going.”

  It had never occurred to Peter that Joe was as much a victim in Boggs’s world as Peter himself had been. He didn’t have anything big enough to say. So he placed the end of the rifle in the spot Joe had indicated and let Joe position his hands. He learned how to cuddle his cheek to the rifle and line up the little nubs Joe called sights. He jerked when Joe touched his hips but managed to keep the sights lined up.

  Joe pushed Peter’s right hip a little. “Align your shoulders, hips, and feet. Elbows in. Good. See the target?”

  Peter grunted.

  “Finger straight next to the trigger. When you’re all lined up, fire.”

  Peter slipped his finger up and down the smooth metal of the trigger, its slight curve tantalizing and soothing all at once. Was this the rifle Marcus had used to kill Sanders? Peter jerked an inhale and lost the clear line between the sights and the shirt. He closed his eyes and tried to calm down.

  “Breathe, Peter.”

  Joe’s gentle voice came from Peter’s right, but Peter didn’t turn toward it. Instead, he relaxed his cheek against the butt and breathed. When he was ready, he opened his eyes and realigned the shot.

  “Good job, kiddo,” Joe murmured. “Whenever you want.”

  Peter inhaled slowly and pulled the trigger.

  The sound. The slight burning smell that soured the clean smell of the rain. A sting that zipped from his shoulder and down his core. The shirt ruffled in the faint breeze, its surface marked with water spots but no holes.

  “Try again,” Joe said.

  Peter lined up the sights. Squinted. Fired. Again. Squint. Fire. On the fourth try, he hit the tree thirty centimeters above and to the left of the shirt. Bark flew off the tree, revealing a soft tan scar of rotted wood underneath.

  He pumped his fist in the air. “Yes!”

  Joe only smiled.

  On the fifth try, Peter hit the tree square, about ten centimeters above the shirt.

  “Better,” Joe said this time. “Adjust your aim. One more shot.”

  Peter stared at the hole he’d made in the tree. If a person were wearing that shirt, he’d have shot them in the head.

  The rifle was heavy. He set it on the ground.

  “Will you teach me to fight? I mean, with my hands?” Marcus had told Peter that he once saw Joe break a man’s arm and nose in a fistfight.

  Joe opened his mouth, but he wasn’t the one who spoke.

  “That might serve you a bit better than learning to fire that gun, young man.”

  Peter whirled to find an elderly man standing ten meters away, an enormous furry dog by his side.

  ***

  Joe picked up the rifle and nudged Peter behind him before
addressing the man. “Hello. We’ll be on our way now.”

  The old man looked him over. “How long’s it been since you’ve had a good meal, young man?”

  Thirty-two days. Over a month since they’d left Navarro and Lil’s. Joe’s stomach rumbled.

  “I’ll take it that it’s been a while.” The man’s hands had been tucked into the pockets of his coveralls, but he pulled one out now and jerked an arthritic-looking thumb behind him. “Come on up to the house. Me’n the missus’ll fix you up.”

  “Thank you for the kindness, but —”

  “Can I pet your dog?” Peter was lurching forward before the man even got around to saying yes. Joe grabbed after him, but Peter shook him off. “He has a dog, Joe.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s safe,” Joe snapped.

  The man laughed as Peter dropped to his knees and buried his hands in the dog’s thick white fur. “Reckon I’m as safe as you boys are gonna find, but by all means, being cautious ain’t a bad thing. Name’s Clinton. Wife’s Maribou.”

  “Peter and Joe,” Peter said, though it came out garbled since the dog’s broad tongue was smothering Peter’s face. “We have three more people with us. Can they eat, too?”

  “They as skinny as him?”

  Peter regarded Joe, and Joe tried to throttle him telepathically. Peter shrugged. “No. He’s the most starving.”

  “Well, Joe-the-most-starving and Peter, let’s get your friends and tell my wife to set a mess of extra places at the table.”

  Joe hesitated. Clinton’s clear blue eyes sparkled with warmth, but that didn’t mean anything. If he’d seen Boggs’s posters, he could be thinking about all the money he could get by turning Joe in. Not that, with his protruding ribs and too-long hair, he looked much like he had back when his picture was taken. But Clinton could pose other threats. He could be running a prostitution ring even worse than Flights of Fantasy. And just because he was speaking kindly to Joe right now didn’t mean he wasn’t a racist.

  “Look son, I know it ain’t easy to trust. But you look like you could use a proper feeding. And you’re the one with a gun. All I got’s Hopper here.” Clinton patted the dog’s head.

  “Please, Joe,” Peter said.

  If Clinton had a way to connect to the world, maybe they could find help for Devin. The pain patches had run out a few days ago, and Devin’s headaches kept intensifying. Two nights ago, Aria had started giving him sleeping pills, just to take the edge off. If Joe could get help... “Do you have electricity?”

  “We do. And a warm bed, if you need a place for a night.”

  “Let’s go.” Joe hoped he didn’t regret it.

  ***

  By the time they rounded up the others and trekked toward Clinton’s small, metal-roofed ranch house, the rain came down in torrents, blowing sideways and pelting Joe’s exposed skin with the pinprick stings of a thousand inoculations. In the shelter of the enclosed back porch, he untied his sodden shoes, his teeth chattering the whole time. His fingers trembled as he stripped off his wet clothes, and only when he’d fumbled on dry socks and shoved his fists into the pockets of his pants was he able to get the shaking to stop.

  Devin’s fingers shook, too. He’d managed to get his shirt off and undo his fly, but his fingers slipped, numb and blind, over the laces on his shoes.

  Joe caught Flix’s troubled gaze and tossed him Devin’s backpack. “Find him some dry clothes.” He squatted in front of Devin and nudged his hands out of the way. “Here, papi. Let me take care of you.”

  Devin grumbled, but he let Joe take off the shoes and help him into dry clothes. Even when he was re-dressed and dry, his muscles were corded and tight with distress.

  Joe had started rubbing them at night, easing some of the tension, distracting him from the pain, at least enough to let Devin sleep. He doubted he’d be able to do that here in Clinton’s house, no matter how friendly the man seemed. “Try to relax your jaw. Here.” He slipped a nausea pill into Devin’s mouth. For days, the pills had been the only way Devin was able to keep food down. Not for much longer; Joe was going to find help.

  He knocked on the back door to the main part of the house and led the way into a neat, bright kitchen where Aria sat at a round wooden table, holding hands with a spry-looking black woman. Clinton leaned against the sink, watching the women with a faint smile on his face.

  “Hello, Joe,” the woman said. “I was just getting acquainted with your wife.”

  God, he was going to kill Aria. He’d pretended they were together back at the Maze-On, but that was only to try to keep the VICE-shot. It was bad enough he wouldn’t be able to be open about his relationship with Devin — he didn’t want to make it worse by having to pretend with Aria. Still, when she reached out a hand for him, he took it and let her guide him to a seat at the table. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”

  Aria beamed at him. “So as I was saying, Miss Maribou, Joe and I set out for the north as soon as we found out I was carrying.”

  Joe choked on his own saliva. He didn’t want to play house with Aria, and he definitely didn’t want to lie about having a kid. The lie was out there now, though, and Joe couldn’t think of a logical way to take it back. He squeezed Aria’s hand hard enough to hurt.

  Aria didn’t even acknowledge it. “We brought along Joe’s little cousin” — she gestured in Flix’s direction — “and ran into these white boys about two weeks in. They’ve been a good help, but food’s tight.” A pat of her flat little belly. “We just want to find Joe’s daddy and make a good home for our little one.”

  What a liar. Joe couldn’t decide if he was impressed or horrified. It didn’t matter. What really mattered was whether or not these people felt sorry enough for them to help them out.

  First things first. “Ma’am —”

  “Call me Maribou, son.”

  Joe tried again. “Miss Maribou, our travel companion needs medical care.”

  Maribou sat upright. “Are you contagious?”

  “The big guy, Devin, he’s having vision problems and headaches. We’re all free of disease.”

  Maribou glanced back at Clinton, who nodded encouragingly. She said, “Is there a way we can help?”

  “No,” Aria said. “He needs a doctor.”

  “Let’s eat,” Clinton said. “Nothing heals like a full belly.”

  Maribou tutted over Joe’s skinny frame until he had eaten his way through a lettuce, cucumber, and tomato sandwich topped with a mound of avocado. He didn’t like all the attention called to his body — the lone benefit to Devin’s vision problems was that he hadn’t noticed Joe had been skipping meals — but the food filled a place inside that Joe had forgotten was empty and aching.

  Hunger sated, Maribou herded them into the living room, where an enormous entertainment console stretched across one of the walls. The rest of the space was occupied by piles of books and two velvety purple reclining chairs. Paintings lined the other walls, landscapes and flowers and a great, gleaming lake.

  “Devin has family that I’d like to contact,” Joe said. He’d thought about it all during dinner. Come to the only conclusion possible. He’d do whatever it took. “These vision problems he’s having...they may be able to help.”

  “God damn it, Joe,” Devin snapped. He’d settled against one of the walls, head in his hands, but jolted and glared in Joe’s direction. “I don’t want them to see me this way.”

  “Honey, you need medical care,” Maribou said. “I wouldn’t even know where to look, aside from the domes. There’s nothing and nobody way out here in the country, at least until you get to Des Moines another thirty miles on north, and we won’t get a drone delivery for at least a month yet, ’til winter’s good and over. Let your friend reach out to your family.”

  “EC,” Joe said, hailing the entertainment console, “call Barbara or Jameson Carnegie-Goodknight, please.” He hadn’t talked to an EC in a long time. He vaguely remembered a time when he was five, talking to
his mother’s cousin Tina back in Mexico. She’d laughed at his jumbled Spanish and called him “darling boy.” After his mother died, he didn’t have anyone to call. His father’s family had died out ages before.

  The console screen switched from a bland view of a mountain to a stunningly beautiful blond woman in a room lined with shelves and shelves of books.

  Joe swallowed. “Hello, my name is Joe Brady —”

  “You have reached Barbara Goodknight,” the woman said. “Jameson and I will be out of contact until the fall.” She smiled, and slight wrinkles near her eyes gave the tiniest indication that she was old enough to be someone’s abuela. “If you need to reach us, you know whom to contact. If you don’t know whom to contact, you’re not someone who needs to reach us. Take care and have a wonderful day.”

  The screen returned to the mountain view.

  Someone snorted. “She seemed —”

  “Call Aaron Brady. A-a-r-o-n. B-r-a-d-y.”

  Joe had told himself he wouldn’t call. Promised himself. Swore he didn’t care whether his father lived in Minneapolis or lived at all. Didn’t care if his dad wanted to see him. Lies, lies, lies.

  The cool voice of the EC returned. “I have located twelve thousand matches. Would you like to begin?”

  “Narrow to Aaron Brady in Minneapolis.”

  “I have retrieved forty-five matches. Would you like to begin?”

  “Retrieve avatars.”

  The screen filled with photos. Dozens of smiling Aaron Bradys.

  “Males only. Scroll.”

  On and on the photographs went. Joe scanned the faces, the hair, the eyes. Not him. Not him. Not him. None of them him.

  Had Joe forgotten? Nine years was a long time. Maybe his father was there on the screen, hiding under years of change.

  “Narrow to Aaron Brady, Minneapolis, Engineer.”

  The calm AI voice again. “No results match your query. Would you like to try again?”

  “Aaron Brady, Minneapolis, biomechanical design.”

  “No results match your query. Would —”

  “Aaron Brady, anywhere, Engineer or biomechanical design.”

  “No results —”