A second beginning, p.6
A Second Beginning, page 6
“Speaking of which . . .” Dylan scratched a worn spot on his jeans. “We’re gonna have a tagalong. Camila Ruiz.”
The bottom fell out of Jenn’s stomach. So much for spiting Camila. And so much for the Militia doing this on its own. “Seriously? Why?”
“She volunteered, apparently, and her major okayed it. The commander was happy to have her experience.”
Volunteered? Interesting. Jenn could respect her for that. But had she volunteered to help her family or keep tabs on the Militia? Both? To help her family by keeping tabs on the Militia?
Dylan took off his hat and ran his fingers through his bright orange hair. “You’ve spent some time with Ruiz, right? What do you think of her?”
“I dunno. She’s not what I expected.”
“How so?”
“It’s hard to explain,” Jenn said. “Something about her feels weird. Sam thinks I’m jealous. Maybe I just don’t like her because she’s a wet blanket and almost gave Gary a heart attack.”
“Fair enough.” Dylan idly curved the brim of his hat. “Do you trust her?”
“Trust her?” Jenn snickered at the irony of her reply. “I met her yesterday. How can I trust her?”
He hopped off the table and slapped her on the back. “Right answer, Jansen. Right answer.”
9
Per Dylan’s instructions, Jenn spent the night with family. And Camila.
She popped the last piece of avocado into her mouth. She didn’t know what tasted better: the juicy tomatoes, the beans, or this avocado. It was all the best food she’d eaten in months, and she was tempted to lick her plate clean. She just wished it had come from the Beaumonts’ farms, not the Army.
Sam ate beside her on the floor, close to the crackling woodstove. Gary sat in his recliner, while Maria sat next to Camila on the couch. Jenn liked her better out of uniform. In gray sweatpants and a T-shirt, she looked more like the girl in the photos on the walls, but Jenn still caught herself staring. This was Camila Ruiz, in the flesh. Unbelievable.
“Thanks again for dinner.” Sam wiped a drop of tomato juice from his chin. “It’s amazing.”
“You’re welcome,” Camila said, robotically. She hadn’t made herself a plate. Hadn’t had a single bite.
“Are you sure you aren’t hungry, sweetie?” Maria asked. Even in the dim firelight, Jenn could see every tendon in her neck, every bone in her face. Her eyes sat deep in their sockets, and her once-thick gray hair was wiry and thin. Her voice sounded different, too: older, raspier. Seeing her like this, so frail and so weak, Jenn couldn’t help but think the worst: for Maria, the next harvest might be too far away, regardless of what happened in Buckeye.
“I’m fine.” Camila wore a stiff smile. “I brought it all for you. As a treat.”
A bribe, more like it. The best way to a starving mayor’s heart was through his stomach. With enough avocado in his belly, Gary would agree to anything the Army proposed.
He’d been the first to clear his plate. “It’s very much appreciated, Mila. I’m sorry I didn’t get the chance to give Major Salinas my thanks.”
Camila’s smile flattened, and she reached for Maria’s empty plate. “I’ll do the dishes.”
“No,” Sam said. “You cooked, sort of, so I’ll do them.”
“Thank you, Sam. Such a gentleman, as always.” Maria passed him her plate and pulled a blanket over her lap. “So, Jenn, are you all packed and ready for tomorrow?”
“Yep.” She’d been packed since three o’clock, itching to find Cornscape Genetics, but she dreaded one part about leaving. “Sorry I’m heading out again. I keep breaking my promise to stay in Flag.”
Maria waved a dismissive hand. “We’re experts at saying goodbye to each other now.” She said it with a grin, but Jenn knew she’d be hurting tomorrow, when both of her daughters were gone, possibly for months—or until the Army finally showed up. “Besides, it’s for a good cause. It’s always been for a good cause.”
Sam finished collecting the plates and took them to the kitchen. Camila stared at the woodstove, shadows dancing on her face. She’d been quiet all night. Was she having second thoughts about going with the scout team? Jenn would, in her position. Two nights with her family wouldn’t be enough.
Gary lowered the footrest on his chair, swiped a notepad off the coffee table, and scratched away with a pencil.
“Whatcha writing there, Gary?” Jenn asked. “A novel like Freddie?”
He held up his pointer finger. Wait one second. A few lines later, he set down the pencil. “Recording ideas as they come to me. I’ll need to make a convincing pitch if we want volunteers to join the farming project. It’s a big ask, moving to Phoenix until September or October.”
His voice rang with excitement; his mood had swung 180 degrees since yesterday morning. Jenn was excited, too. Cautiously excited. The idea of relying on the Army still didn’t sit right with her, but she couldn’t eat her cake and have it.
“Give them incentive,” she suggested. “Extra food.”
“There won’t be enough. Best-case scenario, Sophie expects us to be on survival rations until after next year’s harvest, at the earliest.”
Jenn’s dreams of a kitchen stocked with cornbread had lasted—she glanced at her watch—a whole seven hours. Oh well. She’d settle for the number on the scale reaching triple digits. And Maria surviving another winter.
Maria grabbed Gary’s notepad and pencil.
His chair squeaked as he leaned over to see what she was writing. “Have an idea, dear?”
With a flourish, she held up the notepad and showed him the page: BE HONEST! it read, double underlined, with an oversized exclamation point. “Tell them the truth. Do that, and I doubt you’ll have a problem with recruitment. Hundreds volunteered for the woodcutting teams, and most of them didn’t earn any extra rations. It’s the same with the shovelers, the builders who made the winter shelters, the Militia. This town is full of people ready to make sacrifices.”
Good point. If Jenn weren’t in the Militia, she’d sign up to be a farmer. Allison and her family would, without a second’s hesitation.
“It’s true,” Sam said, over the sound of plates banging together in the washtub. “Lots of people want to help, but there aren’t enough jobs to go around.”
Gary tapped his chair’s armrest, then turned his head toward Camila. “What do you think, Mila?”
The fire crackled and Maria’s oxygen concentrator hummed, but Camila was focused on the woodstove.
“Camila?” Maria tried.
“Huh?” Camila craned her neck to look at Gary. “Oh, sorry, Papa. What did you say?”
Jenn felt a prickle of annoyance. Tonight, Camila should be present, cherishing every minute with her parents. Every second. She’d regret it later if she didn’t.
Gary leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I asked you what you thought about your mother’s advice.”
“Advice?” She fidgeted with the drawstring on her sweatpants. “For . . .”
“For getting farmers to go down south,” Jenn finished.
“Oh.” Camila snuck a peek at Gary’s notepad. “I think she’s—”
A log in the fire popped. In a flash, Camila shot to her feet, eyes wide and alert. Wildly, she glanced around the room, and Jenn knew what she was looking for: the source of the gunfire. The war might be over, but Camila hadn’t stopped fighting. Jenn sympathized with her. Ten years later, a part of Dylan still lived in West Ukraine. Or a part of West Ukraine still lived in Dylan.
“Sweetie . . .” Maria said, with worry lines on her brow. “Sweetie, are you all right?”
“It’s all clear,” Jenn added. “You’re good.”
At that, Camila’s eyes softened, and her whole body seemed to relax. “Sorry. That surprised me. Your new woodstove is loud, Papa.”
Sam came into the living room, a dishtowel on his shoulder. “Everything okay?”
Maria and Gary shared an anxious glance while Camila sat on the couch and stared at the fire as if nothing strange had happened. Jenn mouthed at Sam, Not now.
He gave her a discreet thumbs-up. “I’m almost finished cleaning. Should we play a game after?”
“Good idea,” Maria said. “How about Crusader Castles?” She reached under the coffee table and found a cardboard box with worn corners and a medieval castle on the lid. “It was Camila’s favorite growing up.”
Another log popped, and Camila didn’t flinch. Again, Jenn wondered what she’d seen and what she’d done. Was there any way to help? Maybe, but she and Jenn were strangers. Dylan was her friend, and he lashed out when she first brought up West Ukraine. Camila might explode if Jenn mentioned Mexico. She’d made it here, though, to Arizona, so she must have her head on straight.
Right?
10
Orange early-morning sunlight streamed in through the east-facing window. Dressed in her uniform, Camila sat on her bed. The stuffed animals that used to live on her dresser were gone. Her PC and VR goggles were gone. Her thirty-two-inch 16K, 580-hertz monitor was gone. The pictures of her parents and Ajax were gone. The curtains were generic, the sheets unfamiliar. When Jenn moved out, Papa and Mom hadn’t put back any of Camila’s things.
Because they thought she was dead.
Once, her bedroom had been her sanctuary, where Tracy Vecchio, Rebeka Aknin, and Vicky Cho couldn’t find her, where she could strap into her VR system and become someone else. Now her bedroom made her think of what she’d lost: precious time with her family.
She hadn’t bothered to unpack, so she laced up her boots, grabbed her bag, and left her room behind.
“There she is.” Mom smiled at her from the couch. “Are you sure I can’t fix you something for breakfast? We didn’t finish all the beans.”
“You should eat them. The Militia will have food for me.”
“If you insist.” Mom stood halfway up—then collapsed into the cushions with a thump.
“Mom!” Fear took control of Camila’s legs, and she darted across the living room. “Are you okay? What happened?”
Mom touched her forehead with the backside of her hand. “It’s nothing, sweetie. I got a little dizzy, that’s all.”
“You looked more than a little dizzy. Does this happen to you often?”
“Only once or twice a week,” Mom said, and Camila heard the lie.
“You’re not getting enough calories.” She rubbed her mother’s back. Even through the housecoat, she felt her vertebrae and ribs. “Don’t Jenn and Sam give you some of their rations?”
“Yes, they do. All the time.” Mom sounded half offended by the question. “But they need to eat, too. Jenn, especially. She’s a twig!”
A young twig without a lung disease. “Promise me you’ll eat all the leftovers. No sharing. The protein from the beans will be good for you.”
Mom patted Camila’s knee. “I promise.”
Slowly, carefully, she stood up. Camila hovered nearby, ready to catch her if she fell. It was awful, seeing Mom this sick and delicate. She blamed herself, partly. She should’ve made her quit smoking sooner. Should’ve cried or thrown tantrums or given Mom the silent treatment until she promised to never touch another e-cigarette.
“I’ll be honest, sweetie.” The woodstove’s light reflected off a tear in Mom’s eye. “I’m sad to see you go so soon, but I understand why you need to.”
A lump clogged Camila’s throat. “I’m sorry. I—”
Mom made a shushing noise. “You don’t have to apologize,” she cooed in her bedtime-story voice. “You’ve never needed to apologize.”
Camila had so much to say. I missed you. I love you more than anything. I don’t want to leave you. I’m terrified that you’ll die when I’m gone and we’ll never see each other again. If she opened her mouth, though, she’d start crying, so she just nodded instead.
Pushing up her glasses, Mom discreetly dried her eye. “So how are you feeling today? Still confident in the plan?”
“Yep,” Camila said, but now she was lying. With two squads of Army troops, finding seed and securing farmland would be easy, a total breeze. But with two squads of Militia? Who knew what could go wrong. At least the team’s leader, Dylan Baker, had been a real soldier, a master corporal in the Canadian Forces. Camila had been expecting a French literature professor who’d only learned how to use a rifle sometime since the bombs.
“That’s good. I’m glad.” Mom was quiet for a moment. And then, out of nowhere, “I want to talk about what happened last night. Sweetie, you were so afraid. If something’s wrong, or if something’s bothering you, you can tell me.”
Camila tried not to blush. She wished Papa and Mom hadn’t seen her get so jumpy. Sure, the popping log had sent her back to the canal, but the noise would’ve spooked half the troops in her platoon. It wasn’t a big deal. Anyway, she wanted to forget, not remember. The less she thought about the dark days, the better.
“I know, Mom. Thanks. But I’m good.”
Worry pulled Mom’s lips into a frown, but thankfully, she let the issue go. “Well, at least you and Jenn will be together. This way, you can look out for each other.”
Ugh, Jenn. Camila had hoped the Militia’s golden girl would be staying put in Flag, but she should’ve known better.
She must’ve rolled her eyes, because Mom added, “You don’t need to be jealous of her.”
“I’m not jealous,” Camila said, but it felt like another lie.
“Of course not.” Mom plucked a hair off Camila’s uniform. “You two are actually quite alike, believe it or not. You’re both very brave.”
Brave, right. How brave of Jenn to sleep in Camila’s bed and take classes at the college while Camila dodged bullets thousands of miles from home.
Her cheek twitched. Mom saw it, and her tone sharpened. “Don’t think less of her because she didn’t volunteer during the war. She fought for us when it mattered most.”
For us. Ouch. Clearly, she’d meant, Jenn stepped up when we needed her to, but Camila took her words differently: You weren’t around to help us yourself.
Mom spoke softly now. “Please try giving her the benefit of the doubt. You’ll see, you have more in common than you don’t.”
“I will,” Camila said, and this time, she wasn’t lying. Like it or not, she owed Jenn for helping her parents—for protecting them.
Papa strolled down the hallway, jacket on, twirling a set of keys on his finger. “Ready to go, Mila? Jenn should already be at HQ, but she left the Dodge at her place.”
The lump was back. Camila tried to say “ready,” but it came out as a sad little croak. As she hugged Mom, she was eighteen again, leaving for basic training. She joined the Army to get out of Flagstaff, to show the girls at school that she didn’t fear anyone or anything, to find adventure, like Link on his quest to save Zelda or Hyrule. It took one firefight in Mexico City for her to realize that everything she wanted had been here all along. In this very house.
She considered marching to her room, stripping off her cammies, and unpacking all her stuff. Mom and Papa wouldn’t think any less of her, but she’d think less of herself. They needed her to go. If she didn’t, they could die within the year. Mom, maybe sooner. Camila couldn’t let that happen.
The hum of the oxygen concentrator muffled Mom’s sniffles. “I love you, sweetie.”
“I love you, too.” Camila hugged her tighter. Then she blinked away her tears, stood tall, and told Papa, “Okay, I’m ready. Let’s get going.”
—
Outside Militia HQ, Jenn snapped her fingers and pointed into the bed of a white GMC pickup with a BABY ON BOARD sticker in the window. “Go. Jump up.”
The legged combat drone bent its knees, loaded its legs, and leaped inside. The truck’s suspension squealed, but the LCD fit with room to spare.
“Just like a dog,” Sam joked.
She typed a command on her tablet, and the drone went to sleep, lying flat. “A dog the size of a mountain lion with a heavy machine gun strapped to its back.”
“Exactly.” Sam looked down the line of seven trucks behind the GMC. One pulled a charging trailer with solar panels that glistened in the sunlight. Yawning and chatting, Militia troops loaded the last of their gear. “I’m glad Liam is letting you take it.”
“I was kinda surprised, honestly.” She put the tablet in her jacket pocket. “He even gave us the rest of the .50-cal ammo: 186 rounds.”
“You’re a little better prepared than the first time you went to Phoenix.” His eyes darted to his feet. “I wish I was going with you. Are you sure there’s no way you can get me on the crew?”
“I’ll ask Dylan again, but it sounds like he only wants people who can fight.”
“Hey, I can fight. You should’ve seen me at the Skydome when the White Horde was attacking. I had Espinosa and was ready to take care of business.”
“Yes, I know. You’ve only told me this about two thousand times.” She looped her arms around his neck, and his hands found her hips. She would miss this, being close to him. She’d miss it more tonight, in bed, when she couldn’t roll over and feel him next to her. But she was sure about leaving. As sure as she’d been about anything.
“We’ll see each other soon,” she said, to herself as much as him. “You’ll go with Alpha or I’ll be back in Flag if Cornscape Genetics turns out to be a bust. It’ll be less than a week either way.” A week that would feel like a month. Maybe she could stow him in a trailer and sneak him down to Buckeye. Dylan would blow his top, but he’d get over it.
“Wait, a bust?” Sam went rigid. “You don’t think this place exists?”
“Let’s just say I’d rather be pleasantly surprised when it does exist than heartbroken when it doesn’t.”
He showed her his dopey grin. “Always the pessimist.”
“Always,” she said, then gave him a quick kiss. “On a slightly more positive note, our route south is . . . interesting. It takes us pretty close to Peoria. I could finally find out what happened to my house and get some closure. Like, real closure.”
“You think the convoy would take a detour so you could check it out?” He bit his fingernail, which meant he didn’t care for that idea.
The bottom fell out of Jenn’s stomach. So much for spiting Camila. And so much for the Militia doing this on its own. “Seriously? Why?”
“She volunteered, apparently, and her major okayed it. The commander was happy to have her experience.”
Volunteered? Interesting. Jenn could respect her for that. But had she volunteered to help her family or keep tabs on the Militia? Both? To help her family by keeping tabs on the Militia?
Dylan took off his hat and ran his fingers through his bright orange hair. “You’ve spent some time with Ruiz, right? What do you think of her?”
“I dunno. She’s not what I expected.”
“How so?”
“It’s hard to explain,” Jenn said. “Something about her feels weird. Sam thinks I’m jealous. Maybe I just don’t like her because she’s a wet blanket and almost gave Gary a heart attack.”
“Fair enough.” Dylan idly curved the brim of his hat. “Do you trust her?”
“Trust her?” Jenn snickered at the irony of her reply. “I met her yesterday. How can I trust her?”
He hopped off the table and slapped her on the back. “Right answer, Jansen. Right answer.”
9
Per Dylan’s instructions, Jenn spent the night with family. And Camila.
She popped the last piece of avocado into her mouth. She didn’t know what tasted better: the juicy tomatoes, the beans, or this avocado. It was all the best food she’d eaten in months, and she was tempted to lick her plate clean. She just wished it had come from the Beaumonts’ farms, not the Army.
Sam ate beside her on the floor, close to the crackling woodstove. Gary sat in his recliner, while Maria sat next to Camila on the couch. Jenn liked her better out of uniform. In gray sweatpants and a T-shirt, she looked more like the girl in the photos on the walls, but Jenn still caught herself staring. This was Camila Ruiz, in the flesh. Unbelievable.
“Thanks again for dinner.” Sam wiped a drop of tomato juice from his chin. “It’s amazing.”
“You’re welcome,” Camila said, robotically. She hadn’t made herself a plate. Hadn’t had a single bite.
“Are you sure you aren’t hungry, sweetie?” Maria asked. Even in the dim firelight, Jenn could see every tendon in her neck, every bone in her face. Her eyes sat deep in their sockets, and her once-thick gray hair was wiry and thin. Her voice sounded different, too: older, raspier. Seeing her like this, so frail and so weak, Jenn couldn’t help but think the worst: for Maria, the next harvest might be too far away, regardless of what happened in Buckeye.
“I’m fine.” Camila wore a stiff smile. “I brought it all for you. As a treat.”
A bribe, more like it. The best way to a starving mayor’s heart was through his stomach. With enough avocado in his belly, Gary would agree to anything the Army proposed.
He’d been the first to clear his plate. “It’s very much appreciated, Mila. I’m sorry I didn’t get the chance to give Major Salinas my thanks.”
Camila’s smile flattened, and she reached for Maria’s empty plate. “I’ll do the dishes.”
“No,” Sam said. “You cooked, sort of, so I’ll do them.”
“Thank you, Sam. Such a gentleman, as always.” Maria passed him her plate and pulled a blanket over her lap. “So, Jenn, are you all packed and ready for tomorrow?”
“Yep.” She’d been packed since three o’clock, itching to find Cornscape Genetics, but she dreaded one part about leaving. “Sorry I’m heading out again. I keep breaking my promise to stay in Flag.”
Maria waved a dismissive hand. “We’re experts at saying goodbye to each other now.” She said it with a grin, but Jenn knew she’d be hurting tomorrow, when both of her daughters were gone, possibly for months—or until the Army finally showed up. “Besides, it’s for a good cause. It’s always been for a good cause.”
Sam finished collecting the plates and took them to the kitchen. Camila stared at the woodstove, shadows dancing on her face. She’d been quiet all night. Was she having second thoughts about going with the scout team? Jenn would, in her position. Two nights with her family wouldn’t be enough.
Gary lowered the footrest on his chair, swiped a notepad off the coffee table, and scratched away with a pencil.
“Whatcha writing there, Gary?” Jenn asked. “A novel like Freddie?”
He held up his pointer finger. Wait one second. A few lines later, he set down the pencil. “Recording ideas as they come to me. I’ll need to make a convincing pitch if we want volunteers to join the farming project. It’s a big ask, moving to Phoenix until September or October.”
His voice rang with excitement; his mood had swung 180 degrees since yesterday morning. Jenn was excited, too. Cautiously excited. The idea of relying on the Army still didn’t sit right with her, but she couldn’t eat her cake and have it.
“Give them incentive,” she suggested. “Extra food.”
“There won’t be enough. Best-case scenario, Sophie expects us to be on survival rations until after next year’s harvest, at the earliest.”
Jenn’s dreams of a kitchen stocked with cornbread had lasted—she glanced at her watch—a whole seven hours. Oh well. She’d settle for the number on the scale reaching triple digits. And Maria surviving another winter.
Maria grabbed Gary’s notepad and pencil.
His chair squeaked as he leaned over to see what she was writing. “Have an idea, dear?”
With a flourish, she held up the notepad and showed him the page: BE HONEST! it read, double underlined, with an oversized exclamation point. “Tell them the truth. Do that, and I doubt you’ll have a problem with recruitment. Hundreds volunteered for the woodcutting teams, and most of them didn’t earn any extra rations. It’s the same with the shovelers, the builders who made the winter shelters, the Militia. This town is full of people ready to make sacrifices.”
Good point. If Jenn weren’t in the Militia, she’d sign up to be a farmer. Allison and her family would, without a second’s hesitation.
“It’s true,” Sam said, over the sound of plates banging together in the washtub. “Lots of people want to help, but there aren’t enough jobs to go around.”
Gary tapped his chair’s armrest, then turned his head toward Camila. “What do you think, Mila?”
The fire crackled and Maria’s oxygen concentrator hummed, but Camila was focused on the woodstove.
“Camila?” Maria tried.
“Huh?” Camila craned her neck to look at Gary. “Oh, sorry, Papa. What did you say?”
Jenn felt a prickle of annoyance. Tonight, Camila should be present, cherishing every minute with her parents. Every second. She’d regret it later if she didn’t.
Gary leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I asked you what you thought about your mother’s advice.”
“Advice?” She fidgeted with the drawstring on her sweatpants. “For . . .”
“For getting farmers to go down south,” Jenn finished.
“Oh.” Camila snuck a peek at Gary’s notepad. “I think she’s—”
A log in the fire popped. In a flash, Camila shot to her feet, eyes wide and alert. Wildly, she glanced around the room, and Jenn knew what she was looking for: the source of the gunfire. The war might be over, but Camila hadn’t stopped fighting. Jenn sympathized with her. Ten years later, a part of Dylan still lived in West Ukraine. Or a part of West Ukraine still lived in Dylan.
“Sweetie . . .” Maria said, with worry lines on her brow. “Sweetie, are you all right?”
“It’s all clear,” Jenn added. “You’re good.”
At that, Camila’s eyes softened, and her whole body seemed to relax. “Sorry. That surprised me. Your new woodstove is loud, Papa.”
Sam came into the living room, a dishtowel on his shoulder. “Everything okay?”
Maria and Gary shared an anxious glance while Camila sat on the couch and stared at the fire as if nothing strange had happened. Jenn mouthed at Sam, Not now.
He gave her a discreet thumbs-up. “I’m almost finished cleaning. Should we play a game after?”
“Good idea,” Maria said. “How about Crusader Castles?” She reached under the coffee table and found a cardboard box with worn corners and a medieval castle on the lid. “It was Camila’s favorite growing up.”
Another log popped, and Camila didn’t flinch. Again, Jenn wondered what she’d seen and what she’d done. Was there any way to help? Maybe, but she and Jenn were strangers. Dylan was her friend, and he lashed out when she first brought up West Ukraine. Camila might explode if Jenn mentioned Mexico. She’d made it here, though, to Arizona, so she must have her head on straight.
Right?
10
Orange early-morning sunlight streamed in through the east-facing window. Dressed in her uniform, Camila sat on her bed. The stuffed animals that used to live on her dresser were gone. Her PC and VR goggles were gone. Her thirty-two-inch 16K, 580-hertz monitor was gone. The pictures of her parents and Ajax were gone. The curtains were generic, the sheets unfamiliar. When Jenn moved out, Papa and Mom hadn’t put back any of Camila’s things.
Because they thought she was dead.
Once, her bedroom had been her sanctuary, where Tracy Vecchio, Rebeka Aknin, and Vicky Cho couldn’t find her, where she could strap into her VR system and become someone else. Now her bedroom made her think of what she’d lost: precious time with her family.
She hadn’t bothered to unpack, so she laced up her boots, grabbed her bag, and left her room behind.
“There she is.” Mom smiled at her from the couch. “Are you sure I can’t fix you something for breakfast? We didn’t finish all the beans.”
“You should eat them. The Militia will have food for me.”
“If you insist.” Mom stood halfway up—then collapsed into the cushions with a thump.
“Mom!” Fear took control of Camila’s legs, and she darted across the living room. “Are you okay? What happened?”
Mom touched her forehead with the backside of her hand. “It’s nothing, sweetie. I got a little dizzy, that’s all.”
“You looked more than a little dizzy. Does this happen to you often?”
“Only once or twice a week,” Mom said, and Camila heard the lie.
“You’re not getting enough calories.” She rubbed her mother’s back. Even through the housecoat, she felt her vertebrae and ribs. “Don’t Jenn and Sam give you some of their rations?”
“Yes, they do. All the time.” Mom sounded half offended by the question. “But they need to eat, too. Jenn, especially. She’s a twig!”
A young twig without a lung disease. “Promise me you’ll eat all the leftovers. No sharing. The protein from the beans will be good for you.”
Mom patted Camila’s knee. “I promise.”
Slowly, carefully, she stood up. Camila hovered nearby, ready to catch her if she fell. It was awful, seeing Mom this sick and delicate. She blamed herself, partly. She should’ve made her quit smoking sooner. Should’ve cried or thrown tantrums or given Mom the silent treatment until she promised to never touch another e-cigarette.
“I’ll be honest, sweetie.” The woodstove’s light reflected off a tear in Mom’s eye. “I’m sad to see you go so soon, but I understand why you need to.”
A lump clogged Camila’s throat. “I’m sorry. I—”
Mom made a shushing noise. “You don’t have to apologize,” she cooed in her bedtime-story voice. “You’ve never needed to apologize.”
Camila had so much to say. I missed you. I love you more than anything. I don’t want to leave you. I’m terrified that you’ll die when I’m gone and we’ll never see each other again. If she opened her mouth, though, she’d start crying, so she just nodded instead.
Pushing up her glasses, Mom discreetly dried her eye. “So how are you feeling today? Still confident in the plan?”
“Yep,” Camila said, but now she was lying. With two squads of Army troops, finding seed and securing farmland would be easy, a total breeze. But with two squads of Militia? Who knew what could go wrong. At least the team’s leader, Dylan Baker, had been a real soldier, a master corporal in the Canadian Forces. Camila had been expecting a French literature professor who’d only learned how to use a rifle sometime since the bombs.
“That’s good. I’m glad.” Mom was quiet for a moment. And then, out of nowhere, “I want to talk about what happened last night. Sweetie, you were so afraid. If something’s wrong, or if something’s bothering you, you can tell me.”
Camila tried not to blush. She wished Papa and Mom hadn’t seen her get so jumpy. Sure, the popping log had sent her back to the canal, but the noise would’ve spooked half the troops in her platoon. It wasn’t a big deal. Anyway, she wanted to forget, not remember. The less she thought about the dark days, the better.
“I know, Mom. Thanks. But I’m good.”
Worry pulled Mom’s lips into a frown, but thankfully, she let the issue go. “Well, at least you and Jenn will be together. This way, you can look out for each other.”
Ugh, Jenn. Camila had hoped the Militia’s golden girl would be staying put in Flag, but she should’ve known better.
She must’ve rolled her eyes, because Mom added, “You don’t need to be jealous of her.”
“I’m not jealous,” Camila said, but it felt like another lie.
“Of course not.” Mom plucked a hair off Camila’s uniform. “You two are actually quite alike, believe it or not. You’re both very brave.”
Brave, right. How brave of Jenn to sleep in Camila’s bed and take classes at the college while Camila dodged bullets thousands of miles from home.
Her cheek twitched. Mom saw it, and her tone sharpened. “Don’t think less of her because she didn’t volunteer during the war. She fought for us when it mattered most.”
For us. Ouch. Clearly, she’d meant, Jenn stepped up when we needed her to, but Camila took her words differently: You weren’t around to help us yourself.
Mom spoke softly now. “Please try giving her the benefit of the doubt. You’ll see, you have more in common than you don’t.”
“I will,” Camila said, and this time, she wasn’t lying. Like it or not, she owed Jenn for helping her parents—for protecting them.
Papa strolled down the hallway, jacket on, twirling a set of keys on his finger. “Ready to go, Mila? Jenn should already be at HQ, but she left the Dodge at her place.”
The lump was back. Camila tried to say “ready,” but it came out as a sad little croak. As she hugged Mom, she was eighteen again, leaving for basic training. She joined the Army to get out of Flagstaff, to show the girls at school that she didn’t fear anyone or anything, to find adventure, like Link on his quest to save Zelda or Hyrule. It took one firefight in Mexico City for her to realize that everything she wanted had been here all along. In this very house.
She considered marching to her room, stripping off her cammies, and unpacking all her stuff. Mom and Papa wouldn’t think any less of her, but she’d think less of herself. They needed her to go. If she didn’t, they could die within the year. Mom, maybe sooner. Camila couldn’t let that happen.
The hum of the oxygen concentrator muffled Mom’s sniffles. “I love you, sweetie.”
“I love you, too.” Camila hugged her tighter. Then she blinked away her tears, stood tall, and told Papa, “Okay, I’m ready. Let’s get going.”
—
Outside Militia HQ, Jenn snapped her fingers and pointed into the bed of a white GMC pickup with a BABY ON BOARD sticker in the window. “Go. Jump up.”
The legged combat drone bent its knees, loaded its legs, and leaped inside. The truck’s suspension squealed, but the LCD fit with room to spare.
“Just like a dog,” Sam joked.
She typed a command on her tablet, and the drone went to sleep, lying flat. “A dog the size of a mountain lion with a heavy machine gun strapped to its back.”
“Exactly.” Sam looked down the line of seven trucks behind the GMC. One pulled a charging trailer with solar panels that glistened in the sunlight. Yawning and chatting, Militia troops loaded the last of their gear. “I’m glad Liam is letting you take it.”
“I was kinda surprised, honestly.” She put the tablet in her jacket pocket. “He even gave us the rest of the .50-cal ammo: 186 rounds.”
“You’re a little better prepared than the first time you went to Phoenix.” His eyes darted to his feet. “I wish I was going with you. Are you sure there’s no way you can get me on the crew?”
“I’ll ask Dylan again, but it sounds like he only wants people who can fight.”
“Hey, I can fight. You should’ve seen me at the Skydome when the White Horde was attacking. I had Espinosa and was ready to take care of business.”
“Yes, I know. You’ve only told me this about two thousand times.” She looped her arms around his neck, and his hands found her hips. She would miss this, being close to him. She’d miss it more tonight, in bed, when she couldn’t roll over and feel him next to her. But she was sure about leaving. As sure as she’d been about anything.
“We’ll see each other soon,” she said, to herself as much as him. “You’ll go with Alpha or I’ll be back in Flag if Cornscape Genetics turns out to be a bust. It’ll be less than a week either way.” A week that would feel like a month. Maybe she could stow him in a trailer and sneak him down to Buckeye. Dylan would blow his top, but he’d get over it.
“Wait, a bust?” Sam went rigid. “You don’t think this place exists?”
“Let’s just say I’d rather be pleasantly surprised when it does exist than heartbroken when it doesn’t.”
He showed her his dopey grin. “Always the pessimist.”
“Always,” she said, then gave him a quick kiss. “On a slightly more positive note, our route south is . . . interesting. It takes us pretty close to Peoria. I could finally find out what happened to my house and get some closure. Like, real closure.”
“You think the convoy would take a detour so you could check it out?” He bit his fingernail, which meant he didn’t care for that idea.
