Page 49

I nod, and walk past him into the open air. The stream is just ahead, the water glinting in the sunlight.

I hesitate, then glance back. “Could you … give me some privacy?”

“Of course.” He rises in one fluid motion. “I will wait inside.”

I watch him disappear into the shelter, then pause, scanning the surroundings. Despite his assurance, I can't shake the feeling of beingwatched. His newfound abilities make me wonder … Is he watching from some dark corner I can't perceive?

I wait another minute, listening for movement, before convincing myself to continue. Even then, I position myself behind a large boulder, keeping my back to solid stone rather than open space.

Once I feel reasonably secure, I make my way down to the stream on shaky legs, still thinking about what I just saw. The way he’s changed. The thing that came out of him and looked at me like it knew me.

The water runs crystal clear over smooth stones, catching the first golden hints of sunrise as it tumbles down from somewhere higher in the mountains. It looks clean enough to drink. Clean enough to scrub off the dirt of the last few days. If that's even possible.

Before undressing, I check once more over my shoulder. I can’t see the shelter from here, but I still position myself where I can see in that direction, just in case.

I peel off my winter layers with a grimace—the sweater I've been sleeping in, the T-shirt gone stiff with salt, jeans crusted with desert dust. Each piece hits the ground with a soft thud, like I’m dropping parts of a life that stopped existing the moment I stepped through that door.

Stripped to my underwear, the pre-dawn air brushes my skin, cooler than I expected. It raises goosebumps I can’t explain entirely with temperature. Vulnerable doesn’t even begin to cover it. I cross my arms, hyper-aware of how exposed I am in this alien landscape, then wade into the stream.

The first touch of water pulls a strangled gasp from my throat.It’s beyond cold, the kind that knocks the breath out of you and makes your bones ache. But I force myself deeper, letting the pain distract me from thoughts I’m not ready to face. I scoop handfuls of fine sand from the streambed, using it as a makeshift scrub to scour away days of grime. My skin turns pink under the rough treatment, but the sensation of being clean again is worth the sting.

I duck my head under, and work my fingers through my hair. The tangles have become serious knots in places, matted with desert and sweat, but I manage to loosen the worst of it. Without shampoo or conditioner, it's a losing battle, but at least I no longer feel like I'm wearing half the desert on my scalp.

I rinse my underwear and T-shirt, then spread them out on a sun-warmed rock to dry. They won’t be completely clean, but it’s better than nothing. My jeans and sweater are hopeless for this climate—too heavy, too hot, and definitely too conspicuous. I need local clothing if I’m going to survive here.

While my clothes dry, I sit on the rock, watching the sun creep over the mountain range. The landscape transforms with daylight—harsh, rugged, but beautiful. Reddish-brown rock formations rise around the narrow valley, their shapes carved by wind and rare rainfall. The stream cuts through rocky soil, creating a ribbon of green where tough plants cling to life.

It’s nothing like Chicago. Nothing like anything I’ve ever known. That hits me all over again—how far I am from everything familiar. Not just in distance, but in everything that made sense.

Despite the beauty, I can’t relax. Every few seconds, my eyesdart back in the direction of the shelter, checking for any sign of movement or watching shadows.

When my underwear is dry enough to be comfortable, I put it back on along with my jeans and T-shirt. I leave the sweater behind. It’s useless weight in this heat. My winter boots, meant for ice and city sidewalks, have become torture devices in the desert. The leather is cracking, the seams stiff with sand. I need something lighter. Something that belongs here. But I put them back on anyway, because they’re better than being barefoot.

I return to find Sacha waiting with the sandstriders, already prepared for departure. The shelter is gone, just empty stone and him, standing as if he’s been there all along.

“We need to reach higher ground before midday,” he says, mounting his sandstrider with effortless grace. “The nomads said that patrols are more active around here.”

I climb onto my own mount, my movements awkward compared to his. I was gone a while. Sitting on a rock, naked, drying clothes in the sun like that was normal. I have no idea how close he stayed, or if he ever really left. The thought twists something in my gut.

“How far is it to an actual settlement? Somewhere I can find proper clothes?”

“Ravencross is another day and a half’s ride. If it still exists.” Something in the way he says it makes me glance over. But his face gives nothing away.

We follow what appears to be a game trail winding between the rocks. Scrubby brush gives way to proper scrubs, and occasional treescling to the hillside. The air starts to feel different, cooler, and carries scents that remind me of pine.

The sun is high when Sacha halts and raises a finger to his lips. I hold still, watching while his eyes turn black, then return to normal.

“There are travelers ahead. A merchant caravan, moving toward Ravencross.”

My heartbeat picks up. “Authority again?”

“No.” He urges his sandstrider forward with a single tap of his heel. “Independent traders. They used to be common around here.”

We reach a rise in the trail, and the valley unfolds below. A caravan of perhaps twenty people moves along the valley floor, leading pack animals loaded with goods. From this distance, they look ordinary. Just people going about their business, unaware they’re being watched by an escaped prisoner and someone from another world.

“We’ll approach openly,” he says. “Their kind values commerce over politics. They’ll have things we might need.”

“Do you have anything for trade?”