Chapter 2

Achill in the air shivered her awake. She tried fixing the grass mat Trish had made her but she couldn't get comfortable. Her family's lineage from Sonya had never felt like a burden before; at times on the island she had felt admired and special, even protected—but none of those feelings seemed to follow her on their journey to the mainland.

Ever since the group arrived, Sadina had felt unsafe, vulnerable, like her own life was at risk of being extinguished before discovering why her family's DNA could help. And maybe if more of her ancestral bloodline had been alive, the pressure could have been spread out among others—brothers, sisters, cousins—but Sadina was the only child, just like her parents. Sadina slowly and quietly stood up from her makeshift sleeping spot next to Trish and moved closer to the fire. She walked past her mom, Old Man Frypan, and Minho, all still snoozing. Minho slept with his boots on. Orphan soldiers did weird things.

Sadina sat cross-legged on the ground closest to the fire and rubbed her temples as she looked into the dying flames. A rustle in the trees to the left startled her. She looked back to the sleeping bodies and counted shadows, then felt beside her for something, anything, to use as a weapon. Her right hand found a rock; she held her breath and listened as the rustling grew. What was that? An animal, maybe? But how big? Minho had told stories of the animals they hunted where he came from. Animals bigger than anything they had on their island, and Isaac had told stories of the strength it took to kill the half-Cranks. Sadina wasn't sure she could kill anything bigger than a spider; she never had a reason to before. What if she was forced to crunch the life out of something under her own weight? The disturbance grew louder and closer. Sadina looked at Minho's boots and thought the best thing to do with the rock she'd grabbed might be to throw it at Minho and wake him up. He had guns, knives, and if things got really bad he had some kind of ancient artillery that blew up when you pulled a pin from it. Sadina tensed when a dark tall shadow, hunched over in shape emerged from the tree line. Sadina's eyes widened to take in as many details as they could, but the dying fire made it hard to see more than the outline of a person holding something long and thin. A weapon. She was sure of it. Her heart filled with all of its special blood and beat faster and faster until she realized that her fear had gotten the best of her.

"Don't mind me." The whispered words floated in the air and the shadow stepped closer to her. "Just taking my hourly piss and feeding the fire." Old Man Frypan's image came into focus before her tired brain could identify his voice.

"Oh Shuck, you scared me." Sadina exhaled and dropped the rock beside her.

"Nice. And I'm sorry. Didn't mean to scare you. What are you doing up?"

"Couldn't sleep. Too anxious about Alaska."

"Imagine my excitement." Frypan broke a stick in two and leaned both halves on top of the dying fire. It didn't take long for the flames to catch on, flickering to bright life.

"Sorry." Sadina didn't know what else to say. "I've heard all the Glader stories of old, but to be honest, they always felt more like history lessons and not real life until I saw that first Crank."

"The Cranks . . ." he scoffed, "They ain't nuthin' to hardly worry about. Time did what they could with the Cranks, the people though. . . . They're the ones you have to watch out for."

Sadina pulled her knees to her chest. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean . . . how do I say this . . ." Frypan pulled up a log to sit next to her and shifted his weight in thought. "The island has been a safe place, a safe haven, for many, many years. Those born there in that safety, they don't know the evil that existed, that still exists, in the outside world. Which is good, it's the whole point of the safe haven—but what I mean is . . ."

"You're talking about the people at the Villa?"

"I don't know if the people in the Villa are good people or bad people. I just know that they don't know us as well as we know each other. And we don't know what motivations they might have." Frypan's voice was somehow stronger in a whisper. "Or the motivations of The Godhead."

"If they really want to cure the Flare, that can only be good, right?"

"Ava Paige wanted to cure the Flare, too." He said it with the utmost spite.

"Just like anything, I guess. Someone's motivations can be good but their actions could be bad. Or their motivations could change . . ." Sadina looked up to the stars and tried to find the biggest one. There was no way she could fall back asleep thinking about all this now. What if the Godhead had good motivations but bad plans to execute? Just like her mom had the best of intentions by holding the vote but the act of "democracy" ruined the vibe in their group.

"Everyone from here to the great beyond has motivations, and when you meet someone—try to meet their motivations as well. See if you can figure them out." Old Man Frypan tossed another twig into the fire. "See, Cranks don't scare me anymore because they can't think past their primal urges. People, though . . . people are manipulative, motivated by power, greed, and things you and I aren't capable of."

Sadina wished things could be black or white—the cure or no cure—she hated all this gray area where people like Ava Paige lived. "Do you think I was an idiot to vote for Alaska?"

"No." The old man answered her almost too quickly for her to believe it.

"Am I being naive to trust the two people who kidnapped me?" She asked, hoping for a more honest answer, even as she realized how ridiculous the question was in the first place.

"I can't tell you who to trust." He said it gently and slowly like her grandmother Sonya spoke. The elders had a way of speaking that made the words themselves hold more weight. All their life experiences stood behind those words and made them feel heavy.

Sadina wished for an ounce of wisdom from her grandmother about all this, but Grandma Sonya died years ago. "So . . ." Sadina looked at the fire as she thought out loud. "How did you know who to trust?"

Old Man Frypan put another piece of wood on the fire as if the answer required patience. He sat back down and softly said, "You trust yourself more than anyone else."

"So, I shouldn"t trust anyone else?"

"You're jumping to it too quickly." He slowed down his words, "You trust yourself first, and after that you trust those who trust you." He stoked the fire, its flames reflected in his glistening, wizened eyes. "The only mistake you could ever make is trusting the trustless."

Orphans had no parents.

Orphans had no siblings.

Orphans had no friends. . . . Only enemies.

Minho sat up and reached for his knife; when he pulled the sharp blade from its sheath, he realized he'd only been awakened by the sounds of the group making breakfast. Old Man Frypan snapping twigs. Roxy cutting root vegetables. Dominic humming a song. He slowly put his knife back in its holder and avoided eye contact. Mornings, when he floated in that dreamlike battleground between sleep and awake, he often didn't know where he was and grabbed his weapons on instinct. In those early moments of the day, he reverted back to his Orphan days. Ready to shoot. Ready to stab. Ready to survive. Maybe the group knew his reflexes were on overdrive and that's why no one slept too close to him. Sometimes he had a good solid sleep, so restful that even in his dreams he wasn't anywhere close to the Remnant Nation, but the further he went from his training ground the harder reality seemed to snap back when he woke up. He moved his knife to his hip and reminded himself that he had friends and he had a mom, now. And, most importantly, he had a name. His name was Minho.

"Orange . . . ," Roxy said in a way he imagined a mother's tone might sound when something isn't wrong but not exactly right.

"Yeah?" Orange took a glimpse at Roxy's bowl.

"Here." She motioned for Orange to hold out her hand. "I think this potato you found me is a rock." She plucked the rock out of the bowl and into Orange's open palm.

"Oh." Orange laughed at the potato-looking chunk of rock. Minho had never heard her make such a sound, a cluster of small laughs like Trish and Sadina made.

"Orange is trying to break our teeth on break-fast!" Miyoko yelled with her own chortle.

Minho watched as Orange bounced the rock in her hand, a thing she could use to kill three people without so much as a thought. Anything an Orphan held in their hand became a weapon.

He wondered if she felt the same disorientation in the mornings, if she, too, had to slow her heartbeat in order to keep the practices of the Remnant Nation at bay. The Orphans were in training from the age of four. Trained to fight. To kill. To survive. Until then, were they cared for by nannies until they were able to stand and balance their own weight? He didn't know. His earliest memory was Griever Glane forcing him to kill a mother wolf in front of her cubs. He turned the wolves into orphans only to later die the same death as their mother. Was that what the Remnant Nation did to him?

"Your eyes are open but nobody's home." Roxy looked right at Minho as if what she just said were a question. She had funny ways of saying ‘good morning,' unlike Sadina's mom who spoke gently and said things like, "rise and shine, kiddos."

"Getting there." Minho didn't have the heart to tell Roxy any of these dark thoughts. Both past and present. He watched Orange closely with every bounce of the rock in her hand. Every time it met her palm he waited for her to peg Miyoko in the temple for laughing at her. Pelt Dominic in the ass for being such an ass. But she didn't. She just tossed the rock up in the air and watched it fall.

If having friends was changing Orange, maybe there was hope. Maybe leaving the Remnant Nation meant they could also leave the Nation's imposed beliefs behind.

Orange vaulted the potato-looking rock farther up this time. As it dropped to eye level her elbow swung in a way that made Minho's own muscles flinch from years of training. Orange flicked her wrist with hand-to-hand combat skills and gave a hard backhand that sent the rock flying into a nearby tree. The islanders gawked at her precision. Minho smiled.

"Whoa," Dominic said. "I wanna learn that."

"Do it again!" Miyoko grabbed a stone from around the campfire. "Is this one too big?" Orange repeated the trick, big heave into the air, quick swing of the elbow, backhand that sent the rock flying. This time a little closer to Dominic, whizzing past his ears.

Minho sighed, even as the others cheered. Orange was a good fighter, but she deserved to be more than that.

Humanity deserved the right to evolve. Didn't they? Be better than this?

Born fighters could evolve into born leaders if given the chance. Maybe even nameless Orphans who killed dozens of trespassers on sight could turn out to be something more. Something much more.

Just maybe.

Or not.