Rainfall has doubled as we’ve learned to live in a warmer world—it just falls in the wrong places. Our land and people are thirsty. I am thirsty. And right below me is a filthy river that will give me life and a chance to keep moving. My knees crack as I bend down, unfasten the lid of my bottle, and fill it with the foul-smelling water like I’m scooping for gold.

Beside me Ava fills her own bottle and lifts the contents to her nose for closer inspection. “This water is disgusting,” she says, pinching her nostrils as she crams the lid closed.

“It takes thirty seconds to purify,” I say, holding my bottle up to the sun. Through the translucent plastic the water glows a nauseating brown, and I count three, maybe four, suspicious lumps floating below the filters.

I begin to have my doubts.

“Test it,” Ava tells me.

I flip my bottle, only letting a small stream flow, and clear water pools in my hand. Still wary, I hesitate.

“I’ll test it first,” Ava says, stretching out her arm for the bottle.

“No, I’ll do it,” I say firmly. I’m being foolish. I’m acting spoiled. This is how the greater part of the populace drinks their water. You’re not in Trinity Heights anymore.

I take a long gulp before pulling back, my lips twisted in revulsion.

“What? Does it taste bad?” Ava asks as I suppress a powerful urge to dry-heave.

“It tastes fine,” I say, gathering my composure. “I just can’t get past the mental image that I’m drinking people’s shit.”

A devilish grin plays across Ava’s face. She grabs the bottle from my hand and shakes it, causing more mysterious chunks to appear.

“I mean, look at that! Is that shit?” I ask.

Ava nods, because yes, it probably is.

“Well, shit,” I say evenly.

Ava’s smile widens, and the moment we lock eyes, we both burst into laughter. A cheeks-hurting, eyes-watering, nose-snorting, ugly kind of laughter. My abs burn as I wipe the tears from my eyes. A wave of release passes through me, and for a second I feel weightless. Ava is still smiling. Big and unrestrained, the first since our escape.

“We should hydrate as much as we can while we’re here,” Ava says finally, offering me the next swig.

We empty the bottle after two more passes, and I squat down to refill it while Ava reviews the map. As I secure the lid, a surge of wind sweeps my bangs from my eyes and blows back my hood. My field of view opened, I catch movement to my right.

“Ava,” I whisper before I even make out what it is. I jump to my feet, and we both turn, instinctively shouldering our packs, and discover a girl walking tentatively toward us from the edge of the stream.

“¡Buenas tardes!” she shouts over the howling wind, lifting her hands in a declaration of peace. “¿Hablan español?”

The girl wears a soiled scarf draped loose across her neck, but that’s the only detail I discern before Ava and I pull up our hoods, pivot on our heels, and move calmly but quickly back to the protection of the tree line.

I hide my bottle in my rucksack, leaving my hands free in case I might need them. Is she after our water?

Don’t think, just move.

Always, forever, move.

The girl continues to follow us, yelling out in Spanish. We do not engage or acknowledge her, and I try to drown out every word she screams.

“No les voy a hacer daño. ¡Solamente quiero hablar!”

We both pick up our speed, accelerating to a jog. Her shouts become louder, closer, and we move faster, never once looking back.

“¡No estoy tratando de robarles!”

The edge of the grove is a mere ten yards away. We sprint the last few feet, slip through the trees, and make for the trail without slowing, despite increasing evidence the girl has given up. The path behind us has grown quiet; the sounds of pursuit have ceased. The girl no longer shouts.

I shove my bangs from my eyes and rub a hand hard over my face. We should have seen her sooner. Just as Ava signals we can ease to a walk, a voice rips across the riverbank, desperate and final.

“Arlo Chapman!”

The name reverberates off the tree trunks around us, and instantly we both freeze.

We turn in unison and advance back toward the river, my head spinning, my mind racing. Ava moves her hand to her pocket, gripping her knife the moment we spot the girl leaning dejected against a tree along the perimeter of the small wood. She looks up as we approach, her expression raw and bone tired.

“¿Cómo sabe usted ese nombre?” I ask her. How do you know that name?

The girl’s lip quivers in relief. “Porque yo estaba buscándolo también.”

Because I was looking for him too.

AVA

“¿Por qué estabas buscando a Arlo Chapman?” I demand. Why were you seeking Arlo Chapman?

The bridge we shelter under towers high above our heads, as if we were standing inside an airy cathedral. Mira and I hug the shadows of a thick concrete column, a barricade between our latest threat and us.

I don’t trust this girl.

“Lo encontré. Pero huyó,” she says. I found him. But he fled.

I scrutinize her closer, calculating. She looks older than us—nineteen or twenty. Her long dark hair is tied low at the base of her neck, her lips dry and cracked. She carries nothing with her. No rucksack. No shield to block herself from cameras or the sun. No weapons that I can see. No food or water.

“¿Cuándo huyó?” Mira asks. When did he flee?

“Anoche. Algo lo asustó y abandonó su estación.” Last night. Something spooked him, and he abandoned his station. She lowers her eyes. “Es un cobarde.” He is a coward.

This could be a trick. She could be an informant for the Guard.

Don’t let her draw you in, Father’s training whispers to me.

We need to walk away now.

I grab Mira by the back of her shirt and steer her in the opposite direction of the stranger.

“Por favor . . . esperen,” the girl says, a note of desperation creeping back into her voice. Please . . . wait. Her hands moving passionately, she gives a rapid, emotional speech in an unfamiliar, brassy accent that makes it difficult for me to translate.

Mira resists my grip on her shirt.

“No,” I whisper firmly when she stops our retreat and turns to face the girl. I look to Mira for a translation, an explanation.

“She said she must get to the next safe house, or she will die.” There is sympathy, clear and dangerous, in my sister’s eyes.

“We don’t know what this girl might do,” I hiss to Mira.

Mira grabs her water bottle from her bag and tosses it over to the girl. She catches it one-handed and tears open the lid.

“Gracias,” she says after two respectful sips.

Mira gestures to the shantytown down river. “Sé que hay personas aquí que pueden ayudarle.” I’m sure there are people here who will give you aid.

The girl shakes her head, lifting her empty hand in a helpless gesture. “Solo ayudarán a su propia gente.” They will only help their own.

Away from the bridge, the harsh noon sun beats down on the girl, illuminating what I didn’t see before. The grime that lines her neck, the tattered clothes that hang loose on her body; the hollowed cheeks, the worn-out shoes and eyes that betray a grueling journey.