Stolen by Erin Bowman

don’t like the one with the gun,” he says.
    Bree snorts. “See? I was doomed from the start.”
    Emma drops to her knees alongside the boy and takes both his hands in hers. “Aiden, I don’t know what happened to you here. And you don’t have to tell me—not unless you want to—but just know that not everyone carrying a gun is bad. Some people let the power of a weapon go to their heads and they do terrible things with it. We are not those people.”
    Aiden nods, peering up at Bree and me. “What’s for dinner?”
    “Meat of some sort,” I say, and my stomach growls at the thought of it.
    “With potatoes?” he asks. “And fresh bread?”
    “You’re dreaming, kid.”
    We find the rest of the team in a building that looks like some sort of woodworking shop. It has a vaulted ceiling and a series of workstations lining the walls. They are covered in sawdust and half-finished projects. Carving knives and planes wait patiently, as if they suspect the carpenter simply stepped out for fresh air.
    Someone has cleared out the center of the room, save for a few chairs and benches, and September has started a fire on the slate floor. She’s found a large pot from one of the abandoned houses, and based on the smell, several cans of chicken stock as well. The broth is boiling while a skewered chicken sizzles over the fire.
    “Where did you find chicken?” I ask.
    “There were a few still alive in a coop down the west side of town,” Xavier says, poking at the fire. His eyes fall on Aiden. “Where did you find a boy?”
    “I didn’t think there were any survivors,” my father says, looking up from the maps he’s examining with Bo and Clipper.
    “There aren’t,” Aiden answers. “It’s just me and Rusty.” The dog bounds forward, ecstatic.
    “I told Aiden he was welcome to join us for dinner,” Emma explains.
    My father frowns but says, “Of course.”
    Not much later we are huddled around the fire, feeling warm for the first time in days and devouring chicken soup that tastes so delicious no one bothers with talking.
    “They came three weeks ago tomorrow,” Aiden announces suddenly. “I’ve been carving lines on my bedpost to keep track of the days.”
    My father pauses, a spoonful of soup halfway to his lips. “Who came?”
    “Men. In black uniforms. They said they needed our water. I was upstairs in my bedroom when they arrived. Mama told me to stay there.”
    Aiden looks at the door as though the black-suited men may be waiting there.
    “The well is right outside our house,” he says finally. “I sometimes lean out my bedroom window and shoot pebbles into it with my slingshot. Sophie—she was my cousin—played, too.”
    Was . The boy has already adjusted how he refers to people who just three weeks ago were alive.
    “The men walked right up to our well and started hauling out the water,” Aiden continues. “Mr. Bennett, who worked at the blacksmith shop, came running and tried to stop them. He said bad words, a lot of them. The man in black said something about the country needing our water, and when Mr. Bennett didn’t stop yelling, the man took out his gun and then Mr. Bennett was dead.”
    The room is so still the crackling fire sounds as loud as gunfire. Aiden starts shaking again, so Emma pulls him into her lap.
    “They pumped the well dry and left. The next day, people started getting sick. Mama got a cough and locked me in my room with our last jug of water and a bunch of bread and cheese. I thought I’d done something bad because she had a handkerchief over her mouth and wouldn’t look at me. She told me to keep my window shut and made me promise not to open it.
    “I didn’t. Not even when I saw them walking around town, crying and coughing. Their skin peeled. Their eyes went yellow. Some of them got on their horses and left. Most went to the church and prayed. I watched them all from my window, but I kept it closed, just like Mama told me to. I didn’t touch the window