dunked his head in an ice-cold bath.
Cael says to Lane, “He doesn’t look good.”
“Doesn’t look good? He looks like a fell-deer who ran headfirst into a corn thresher.”
Rigo startles as the image of a Blighted Earl Poltroon falling into the thresher jaws replays in his head—the sound of his bones banging against the inside of the motorvator’s bin like so many corncobs.
Cael shushes Lane, and they both look at Rigo.
“I can hear you,” Rigo murmurs.
The two of them step away from Rigo and begin to argue over what they’re going to do about him. He can’t distinguish who’s saying what. Someone says, “He needs medicine, man. He needs cillin-pills fast.” One of them answers, “Where the hell we gonna get those?” “The depot.” “We don’t know where the depot is. Or if there even is a depot out this way. Not like we have a map. Or a clue. Just moving in a straight line hasn’t gotten us anywhere yet no matter what Pop said.” “I trust Pop, and after everything, so should you, and—”
Meanwhile, Rigo lies there.
He has to push his breath out and suck it back in. Each time as if it’s running over a wood rasp. A dry whistle in the back of his throat.
His forehead feels like a hot plate.
He hears his father’s voice in his ear: “Rodrigo, Rodrigo. You’re a shit kid. Nobody wants you . And now you’re going to die.”
Rigo winces, pauses for the strike of his father’s hand.
It never comes.
He opens his eyes instead and sees a black shape drifting across the sky above. Not a flotilla. Lower than that. And flying lower still.
A ship.
To take them all away.
Suddenly he’s getting up, and his leg is okay, and he’s walking toward the ship as it lands in the corn, smashing stalks. Cael and Lane haven’t caught up yet, and Rigo thinks this is good; this is him doing something before them; this is him escaping this world before they can.
They always get to do everything first.
He laughs, but then that laugh dries up like the last drops of water falling out of one of their water bladders, and he finally says, “Oh.”
Rigo must’ve said it pretty loud because Cael and Lane look over.
“What?” Lane asks.
“I just realized.”
“Realized what?” Cael says.
“That it’s a hallucination. The ship.”
“What ship?”
He lifts a shaky finger and points.
They follow his finger.
The two of them start laughing.
“A ship!” Cael hoots. He slams into Lane, and they hug. Together they clap him on the shoulder. “Rigo, that’s no hallucination. That’s a real ship!”
That’s it, Cael thinks as he watches the ship descend out of the sky and fly over the corn and away from them. That’s our ride .
He knows that ship isn’t just a ship—it’s a scowbarge—and those are meant to carry heavy loads. A scowbarge means the depot is near.
It means they’re close.
He laughs as he and Lane help Rigo stand once more.
Cael positions the crutch under Rigo’s arm, and he starts saying, “Rigo, the depot ain’t far now, and if anybody’s going to have cillin-pills or some other Empyrean medicine, it’ll be them.” And he’s telling Rigo about how it won’t be long now, they just need him to power through and hobble just a little farther, and hey, Heartlanders are made of mean stuff, tough as the corn, hard as the earth, and just as they get Rigo settled, Cael feels it.
That itch again on his chest. This time it comes with a hot twinge of pain almost like someone’s trying to twist a screw into his breastbone.
He winces and reaches under his shirt.
Everything stops. His blood goes cold.
No no no this isn’t possible it’s not what you think it is .
The back of his wrist tents his shirt as his fingers find the soft margins of the thing growing out of his chest. Cold and smooth, with a faint indentation on one side that manifests as a ridge on the other.
A leaf.
It feels like a leaf. With a little stubby stem.
He blinks back tears and tugs on
Cael says to Lane, “He doesn’t look good.”
“Doesn’t look good? He looks like a fell-deer who ran headfirst into a corn thresher.”
Rigo startles as the image of a Blighted Earl Poltroon falling into the thresher jaws replays in his head—the sound of his bones banging against the inside of the motorvator’s bin like so many corncobs.
Cael shushes Lane, and they both look at Rigo.
“I can hear you,” Rigo murmurs.
The two of them step away from Rigo and begin to argue over what they’re going to do about him. He can’t distinguish who’s saying what. Someone says, “He needs medicine, man. He needs cillin-pills fast.” One of them answers, “Where the hell we gonna get those?” “The depot.” “We don’t know where the depot is. Or if there even is a depot out this way. Not like we have a map. Or a clue. Just moving in a straight line hasn’t gotten us anywhere yet no matter what Pop said.” “I trust Pop, and after everything, so should you, and—”
Meanwhile, Rigo lies there.
He has to push his breath out and suck it back in. Each time as if it’s running over a wood rasp. A dry whistle in the back of his throat.
His forehead feels like a hot plate.
He hears his father’s voice in his ear: “Rodrigo, Rodrigo. You’re a shit kid. Nobody wants you . And now you’re going to die.”
Rigo winces, pauses for the strike of his father’s hand.
It never comes.
He opens his eyes instead and sees a black shape drifting across the sky above. Not a flotilla. Lower than that. And flying lower still.
A ship.
To take them all away.
Suddenly he’s getting up, and his leg is okay, and he’s walking toward the ship as it lands in the corn, smashing stalks. Cael and Lane haven’t caught up yet, and Rigo thinks this is good; this is him doing something before them; this is him escaping this world before they can.
They always get to do everything first.
He laughs, but then that laugh dries up like the last drops of water falling out of one of their water bladders, and he finally says, “Oh.”
Rigo must’ve said it pretty loud because Cael and Lane look over.
“What?” Lane asks.
“I just realized.”
“Realized what?” Cael says.
“That it’s a hallucination. The ship.”
“What ship?”
He lifts a shaky finger and points.
They follow his finger.
The two of them start laughing.
“A ship!” Cael hoots. He slams into Lane, and they hug. Together they clap him on the shoulder. “Rigo, that’s no hallucination. That’s a real ship!”
That’s it, Cael thinks as he watches the ship descend out of the sky and fly over the corn and away from them. That’s our ride .
He knows that ship isn’t just a ship—it’s a scowbarge—and those are meant to carry heavy loads. A scowbarge means the depot is near.
It means they’re close.
He laughs as he and Lane help Rigo stand once more.
Cael positions the crutch under Rigo’s arm, and he starts saying, “Rigo, the depot ain’t far now, and if anybody’s going to have cillin-pills or some other Empyrean medicine, it’ll be them.” And he’s telling Rigo about how it won’t be long now, they just need him to power through and hobble just a little farther, and hey, Heartlanders are made of mean stuff, tough as the corn, hard as the earth, and just as they get Rigo settled, Cael feels it.
That itch again on his chest. This time it comes with a hot twinge of pain almost like someone’s trying to twist a screw into his breastbone.
He winces and reaches under his shirt.
Everything stops. His blood goes cold.
No no no this isn’t possible it’s not what you think it is .
The back of his wrist tents his shirt as his fingers find the soft margins of the thing growing out of his chest. Cold and smooth, with a faint indentation on one side that manifests as a ridge on the other.
A leaf.
It feels like a leaf. With a little stubby stem.
He blinks back tears and tugs on
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