I lie awake on my back, listening to the sounds of the world coming alive around me.

The light creeping in around the edges of the tent flaps glows the warm fiery amber of early morning. From somewhere high above, a jay cries shrilly from its perch, and a rustling of leaves on the ground signals a squirrel or chipmunk foraging for breakfast.

Grace stirs beside me, and I'm aware of the warmth of her small body curled up against mine. I look over at her tightly curled form, chest rising and falling gently, eyelids fluttering in her sleep, and I wonder what she's dreaming about. Her thumb is gripped loosely between her lips, a habit she's far too old for. I turn my gaze back to the ceiling of the tent, weathered and streaked with dirt, pinpricks of light glowing through small holes in the fabric.

Too old, I think, and too young. Too young for this.

It's been two weeks since the walls around Portland came down and the uncureds swarmed in. Most of the regulators, lacking any formal leadership following the explosion at Fred Hargrove's house, fled north. The few who remained were quickly overcome, and those who were not killed were thrown in the Crypts. Pippa and most of the population living in the Honeycomb quickly moved into the city, eager for real roofs over their heads, running water, and electricity. After seeing the filth and poverty they lived in at the Waterbury camp, I can't say I blame them, but those in our tight-knit group have remained behind at the fringes of town. For some, I think it's a matter of having grown accustomed to our way of life in the Wilds, so that even if it's more primitive, it's comfortable. For me, the hesitation is of a different sort. I'm afraid to walk into the city I grew up in and not recognize it. I worry about bedding down in an abandoned house and being haunted by the ghost of what happened there. Mostly, I'm afraid of coming home and never truly feeling home. I have no idea where home is anymore.

Feeling suddenly claustrophobic, I sit up slowly, careful not to disturb Grace, and slip out of my sleeping bag. I peel the zipper of the flap up and slip out into the morning. The remains of last evening's campfire have long since stopped smoldering, leaving behind a black pile of ash and a smell of smoke. A few empty beer cans litter the ground around it, and I frown, thinking of Tack.

Raven's sudden death dealt a blow to all of us. She was the heart of our little band of resisters, and we all felt a little lost without her. But it was no secret that no one felt her absence more keenly than Tack. By day, he disappeared for hours at a time, coming back from the city with food and supplies, and busied himself with stocking it into a small shed he'd constructed from the remains of the wall. At night, he sat around the fire with the rest of us, a can or flask always clutched in his fist, speaking little. He never mentioned her, and the rest of us knew better than to mention her name when he was around. He stoked the flames long after everyone else went to sleep, and I'd often wake in the early hours of the morning and steal a glance outside the tent to see him staring wordlessly into the fire, sipping from a can or bottle as the shadows danced across his face, his jaw set in an unreadable mask. Once, just once, I'd seen him fling a glass bottle into the trees, choke back an angry cry, and hang his head in his hands.

Now, the ring of impromptu seats we've scrounged up using sofa cushions and the occasional lawn chair sits empty, and the only sound of human activity is a soft snore that comes from one tent, a rustle of movement from another as someone turns over in their sleep. Feeling the silent protest from my aching muscles, I decide on a walk down to the creek to get the blood flowing into my limbs and fresh, smokeless air into my lungs.

I pick my way deliberately down the gently sloping hillside, careful to avoid the stones and roots that jut up from the earth. I hear the sound of dribbling water, seeming to titter and laugh as it carves its way along the ravine. I pick up speed as I hear it, eager to dip my toes into the water and splash it onto my face. I make the mistake of not watching my step in my haste, and my toe finds a small stone at the bed of the stream camouflaged by fallen leaves. I wince as the pain shoots up my foot, and commence to hopping along on the uninjured leg.

"Frick!" I sputter, and all at once, something amazing happens.

I begin to laugh.

The utter absurdity of the situation, of having survived my way through riots, capture, and gunfire, only to be tripped up by a simple rock, has somehow struck me as funny. The first laugh rips out of me unexpectedly, and it feels so good that I continue on, throwing my head back and crowing to the sky, not caring who can hear. After a while, my sides begin to ache, and I'm gasping for breath. I double over, hands on my knees, trying to recover.

"Having fun?"

I whirl about, stricken with an instant's terror at having been sneaked up on, which eases when I see my mother standing a few feet away, arms folded, a small smile dancing on her lips.

A wave of embarrassment and even irritation rises up in me, and I struggle to suppress it. "I didn't hear you."

"Obviously." Her smile widens as she crosses toward me and kneels to splash the water on her face. She pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and blots her skin dry. "Having trouble sleeping?"

I nod, although with her back to me, she's unable to see it. "I worry about Grace."

"Grace will be fine," she says shortly, rising. "She's still young. Children adjust more easily than we do."

Hearing her acknowledge me as an adult for the first time is strange, and it frightens me to hear. Sometime, in the past year, I've stopped being a child. Now, with Grace fully relying on me, I've become a sort of de facto parent. The thought is somewhat unsettling, and I have to wonder whether it's her or my responsibility to her that I'm more worried about.

As if reading my thoughts, my mother turns to face me. "What about you, Lena? You've been through an awful lot."

I can't tell whether she means the events of recent weeks, or if she's referring to my childhood without her. I can't stop a cold seed of resentment from sprouting in my belly. In some ways, a small, selfish part of me still has trouble forgiving her for leaving. This, the hardship and the heartache, is the life she was trying to spare me from. In the end, it wouldn't have mattered. I'd either be a zombie, attempting to find the sense and order promised by the cure amid the chaos created by the Invalids, or one of the Invalids themselves, attempting to reclaim a life that had been denied them, in many cases proving to be as brutal and savage as the DFA had warned us all about. Even now, there are times when I struggle with being certain of which side I'd rather have been on. There are no victors among us. This is the price of freedom.

"I'm fine," I say.

"I don't think you are, Magdalena," she says softly. "You're the only one among us who hasn't gone into the city, not even for supplies. You can't sleep in a tent forever. Grace –"

"You said it yourself. Grace can adjust." It's a foolish statement, I know it the moment it leaves my lips, but I'm far too stubborn to recant. Instead, I utter an exasperated sigh.

"She deserves more than this, Lena. You can't take care of her all by yourself. It's an unfair situation to both of you. She needs a soft bed to sleep in, a place to feel safe, a yard to play in. She needs to be allowed to be a child. And you need the time and space to sort things out."

She doesn't elaborate further, and she doesn't need to. The remainder of the sentence remains unspoken, but hangs heavily in the air all the same. Alex. Julian. Where either of them stands. I've been studiously avoiding them both, careful not to be alone with either of them. Alex loves me; he told me so the day the wall came down. Julian loves me; he confessed it months ago, against my protests. I love Alex, but it frightens me. He shattered my heart when he turned away from me, and I don't know that I'd be able to survive it if he ever did it again. At the same time, I can't quite bring myself to break Julian's heart, not when I was the one who brought him here to begin with.

A shout rises from the direction of the campsite, shattering the thick silence between us. "Hey! Where's breakfast? I don't think you want to see what happens when I try to cook!" It's Hunter, who hasn't been allowed near a cooking utensil since he fell asleep preparing a pot of beans and wound up with a charred mess at the bottom of the pan that we still haven't been able to get out.

I smile in spite of myself, and the tension eases. I brave a look at my mother's face, and she gives me a knowing wink. "It's your turn."

I nod, happy to be off the subject, and we start up the hill together.