look and London felt even more embarrassed. She didn’t know she’d hit him so hard.
“Sorry,” she said turning away. “Guess I’ve been eating a few too many of those Dehydrated Dinners.”
Zen continued to study her. “Your arms and shoulders do look a little bigger than normal.” He squeezed her left bicep with one hand. “Weird.”
London shook him off. She didn’t want to tell him that she’d noticed her jeans were a little tighter on her calves as well. None of them were saying it, but they were all thinking it: London was bringing a little more of Si’dah back with her after every trip to the Astral.
Tora tied her brown, reprocessed jacket around her waist and quickly changed the subject. “I’m serious. Let’s think about this. First she tells you how beautiful it is here, then she tells you the camp is as bad as being a Waller. That doesn’t go together.”
Kim wrapped his fingers in Tora’s. “She has a point. I think we’re missing a vital piece of the Mesa Camp puzzle.” He glared at Zen. “Out with it, man. What are you forgetting?”
Zen leaned against the truck. “Nothing. I didn’t know any of this was going to be relevant at the time or I would have paid more attention, asked more questions.”
London studied the scruffy terrain before her, if only to avoid looking at how well the jeans Zen had changed into fit him. But something was coming together in her mind as she let her eyes stray over the gorsy tufts of knee-high brush. “Come to think of it,” she noted aloud, “if I were an Outroader, the last place I’d want to live is on top of one of these mesas. Too open, too exposed. The Tycoons could fly right over and pick you off, like vultures stripping road kill. Nope. That wouldn’t do at all.”
Kim gave her a quizzical look, his inky hair shining like an oil slick in the sunlight. “So, what are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting that the Mesa Camp isn’t called the Mesa Camp because it’s on top of a mesa.” A wry smile lit her face and Tora’s eyes twinkled back at her.
Tora beamed as the boys stared at them both dumbfounded. “Of course not,” she said. “It’s below one.”
LONDON STUCK SELF-CONSCIOUSLY to Zen’s side as they moved into the mouth marking the entrance of the Mesa Camp. A band of Outroaders gathering desert herbs outside had stopped to point it out to them in exchange for a few tokens of goodwill, a small plastic tote and two chipped china cups, once they confirmed they weren’t Wallers or Tycoons. By now, they’d all been in the Outroads long enough to look the part. Conveniently, they were able to leave their truck under a rock outcropping nearby.
The noise of people busily going about their day echoed in the wide hall carved out of the stone and the booming, hollow sound was disconcerting to London’s ears. They moved slowly, passing groups of desert Outroaders, and several stopped to stare at them as they passed, particularly London.
“What’s the deal?” she whispered to the others. “Do I have
freak
etched on my forehead?”
“No, but you have Outroader blood on your hands,” Tora whispered back. “Word travels fast.”
By now, they all knew about London’s run-in with Clark at the camp and the stabbing. Zen was going to keep it a secret, but Tora overheard Rye and the regiments in Ag refer to it. She wasn’t happy with London; Clark was still from her old camp, someone she cared about. But Tora let it go. Even Kim defended London, saying that she’d only done what she had to.
“Surely not that fast?” Zen asked, under the watchful glare of a trio of whispering, black-headed Outroader girls.
Tora shrugged.
It seemed unlikely that any scout could outrun their truck, carrying news of what happened in Bayou Camp Four this far west ahead of them, but London couldn’t ignore the dirty looks she kept getting. And she wasn’t paranoid, Zen was noticing it, too. He put an arm around her protectively.
They
“Sorry,” she said turning away. “Guess I’ve been eating a few too many of those Dehydrated Dinners.”
Zen continued to study her. “Your arms and shoulders do look a little bigger than normal.” He squeezed her left bicep with one hand. “Weird.”
London shook him off. She didn’t want to tell him that she’d noticed her jeans were a little tighter on her calves as well. None of them were saying it, but they were all thinking it: London was bringing a little more of Si’dah back with her after every trip to the Astral.
Tora tied her brown, reprocessed jacket around her waist and quickly changed the subject. “I’m serious. Let’s think about this. First she tells you how beautiful it is here, then she tells you the camp is as bad as being a Waller. That doesn’t go together.”
Kim wrapped his fingers in Tora’s. “She has a point. I think we’re missing a vital piece of the Mesa Camp puzzle.” He glared at Zen. “Out with it, man. What are you forgetting?”
Zen leaned against the truck. “Nothing. I didn’t know any of this was going to be relevant at the time or I would have paid more attention, asked more questions.”
London studied the scruffy terrain before her, if only to avoid looking at how well the jeans Zen had changed into fit him. But something was coming together in her mind as she let her eyes stray over the gorsy tufts of knee-high brush. “Come to think of it,” she noted aloud, “if I were an Outroader, the last place I’d want to live is on top of one of these mesas. Too open, too exposed. The Tycoons could fly right over and pick you off, like vultures stripping road kill. Nope. That wouldn’t do at all.”
Kim gave her a quizzical look, his inky hair shining like an oil slick in the sunlight. “So, what are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting that the Mesa Camp isn’t called the Mesa Camp because it’s on top of a mesa.” A wry smile lit her face and Tora’s eyes twinkled back at her.
Tora beamed as the boys stared at them both dumbfounded. “Of course not,” she said. “It’s below one.”
LONDON STUCK SELF-CONSCIOUSLY to Zen’s side as they moved into the mouth marking the entrance of the Mesa Camp. A band of Outroaders gathering desert herbs outside had stopped to point it out to them in exchange for a few tokens of goodwill, a small plastic tote and two chipped china cups, once they confirmed they weren’t Wallers or Tycoons. By now, they’d all been in the Outroads long enough to look the part. Conveniently, they were able to leave their truck under a rock outcropping nearby.
The noise of people busily going about their day echoed in the wide hall carved out of the stone and the booming, hollow sound was disconcerting to London’s ears. They moved slowly, passing groups of desert Outroaders, and several stopped to stare at them as they passed, particularly London.
“What’s the deal?” she whispered to the others. “Do I have
freak
etched on my forehead?”
“No, but you have Outroader blood on your hands,” Tora whispered back. “Word travels fast.”
By now, they all knew about London’s run-in with Clark at the camp and the stabbing. Zen was going to keep it a secret, but Tora overheard Rye and the regiments in Ag refer to it. She wasn’t happy with London; Clark was still from her old camp, someone she cared about. But Tora let it go. Even Kim defended London, saying that she’d only done what she had to.
“Surely not that fast?” Zen asked, under the watchful glare of a trio of whispering, black-headed Outroader girls.
Tora shrugged.
It seemed unlikely that any scout could outrun their truck, carrying news of what happened in Bayou Camp Four this far west ahead of them, but London couldn’t ignore the dirty looks she kept getting. And she wasn’t paranoid, Zen was noticing it, too. He put an arm around her protectively.
They
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