David

  The camp was winding down for the night, but David kept his senses sharp. The flickering glow of scattered fires illuminated the makeshift streets, casting long shadows. He kept an eye out for the red-scarfed thief. He hadn’t seen her tonight, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t out there. She was always out there. Sneaking food, slipping past patrols, making his job harder.

  Not for the first time, he wondered how she was getting away with it. There were enforcers stationed all over Camp Orange, and yet she always managed to vanish before anyone could catch her. But David wasn’t just anyone. He’d seen the way she moved—quick, deliberate. She never let anyone get a clear look at her face, but he knew the red scarf, knew the slight frame and sure steps. She was getting bolder, and that meant she was getting careless.

  He’d catch her soon.

  He flexed his aching hand as he made his way back to camp, the top of his hand pulsing in time with his heartbeat. The scuffle earlier had cost him—not just in bruises, but in time. He’d wasted too much of it dealing with that fool, and now the rations tent would be empty. Grace would have to settle with what he’d gotten before his shift.

  The cold cut through his jacket as he walked, the village stretching out before him in dimly lit patches. Lean-tos and tents clustered together like a gathering of forgotten souls. He counted the lights, noting how many still burned low against the night. Some would go out before morning, their occupants forced to huddle together for warmth.

  A man walked past him, shoulders hunched against the cold, his steps unsteady. He lost his footing near David and bumped into his arm.

  “Steady there,” David said, and the man said, “Sorry.”

  Then he was gone. But he’d left a slip of paper in David’s hand.

  In the distance, a bell rang. One long toll. Two short ones. A child.

  David swallowed hard, quickening his pace. His pulse hammered in his ears as he neared his tent. Not Grace. Please, not Grace.

  The keening wail that followed the bell confirmed it—someone else’s loss. Not his. Relief tangled with guilt in his gut as he reached the familiar canvas structure and pushed back the flap.

  Grace turned from the fire she stoked, her face lighting up. "You’re home!"

  He forced a smile, dropping onto the worn sleeping bag that covered the dirt floor. The bundle of sticks she’d collected burned low in the center of the tent, their fire barely contained by a ring of worthless rocks. Smoke curled toward the opening above, blackening the fabric edges. He trusted Grace to ration it well; she always did. There was no room for mistakes—not when foraging outside the camp was forbidden. Anyone who left wasn’t allowed to return.

  "Yeah," he muttered, prying off his boots. "Who’s the bell for?"

  The cheer dimmed in her wide blue eyes. "I don’t know," she whispered. "I haven’t left the tent. I’ll find out tomorrow."

  It was one of her peers. They both knew it. The number of children in Camp Orange had dwindled too low to ignore.

  “Here.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a wrapped piece of bread and hard cheese.

  She hesitated without reaching for it. “What about you?”

  “I ate already,” he lied. “During my shift.” She wouldn’t take it if she thought he’d gone without.

  She paused for another moment, her eyes searching his, before she bit into the bread. His stomach growled in displeasure, but she’d closed her eyes and moaned with appreciation, drowning out the sound. Her golden hair glowed in the flickering firelight, but there was a shadow in her expression that cut through him worse than his wound. He hated this. Hated that she had to ask about food. Hated that this was their reality.

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  But he made sure she had enough. Always. Even if it meant going without himself.

  "You don’t have to wait for me to get home. You could go yourself, you know," he said gruffly. "To get your food. You get the firewood fine."

  "The food rations are different," she murmured, swallowing the last of her food. "People get scary."

  David exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. "Never mind, Grace. I should have extra tomorrow."

  He couldn’t take care of her like he should. The anger burned in his chest, a mix of frustration and helplessness. This shouldn’t be his burden.

  His parents shouldn’t be dead.

  He flexed his injured hand, wincing at the sting. "Put my Cinderbone on the fire, will you? And bring me some water."

  Grace turned, brows knitting in concern. "Are you hurt?"

  "Just tired." He didn’t have the energy to argue. "Please."

  She hesitated, then reached for his Cinderbone, the slender, curved metal rod he always kept close. It wasn’t much—just a piece of rebar they’d scavenged, bent and sharpened into something halfway functional. One end had been filed flat to stoke the fire, and the other sharpened to a point, good for defense or prying open crates, anything that could keep them safe. It had a leather loop on the end so it could be slung over his shoulder or attached to his belt, ready at any moment.

  It was one of his prized possessions. It wasn’t elegant, but it was practical. And in this world, that was all that mattered. Not every refugee had one.

  David had been hoping for weeks now to trade for another Cinderbone—one for Grace. The black market was full of people like him: desperate enough to barter with anything they had, but cautious, too. He’d been talking with a man named Kip, who had connections to a supplier that forged these tools from scrap metal. The deal wasn’t done yet, but David knew he couldn’t wait much longer. The truth was, the longer he went without securing one for Grace, the more he feared she’d be left vulnerable in this unforgiving world.

  But the cost of getting one for Grace wasn’t going to be easy. Kip wasn’t offering the Cinderbone out of charity. David had promised a favor in return. Kip had connections to a group of enforcers who worked for the black market syndicates in the camp, and they had plans. Plans to push into some of the more heavily guarded parts of the camp and take control of valuable resources—like water, food, and medicine—before anyone else could. Kip needed an enforcer, someone who could do the dirty work. Someone who could intimidate, break a few rules, and make sure their plans went smoothly.

  David didn’t like it. He didn’t like the idea of working for people like that. But Kip had made it clear: if David wanted that Cinderbone for Grace, he had to prove his loyalty. The price was steep, and if things went wrong, it could cost David more than just his reputation. It could cost him his life.

  Grace knew none of this. He made sure of it.

  She grabbed his Cinderbone, a two-foot long piece of iron, and sit it into the embers.

  David leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling of their meager shelter. His thoughts drifted back to the fight. To the way his patience had snapped. To the injustice of it all. And then to her.

  The thief.

  He hadn’t seen her tonight, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t out there. The girl with the red scarf had been slipping past him for weeks, stealing extra rations, swiping fuel. Making his job harder. Making people go without.

  Because in this place, survival wasn’t just about playing fair. It was about winning.

  He was tired of playing fair.

  Grace dipped a cup into the water bucket in the corner and returned it to him. “Want me to wash your wound?”

  “I got it.” He took his glove off and found the source of the ache: a cut across the back of his hand. Probably cut himself on the man’s teeth. He poured the water over the wound, then clamped his mouth on the glove and wrapped his uninjured hand around the sleeping bag fabric beneath his thigh. He knew too well what it felt like to cauterize a wound. “I’m ready,” he said, extending the cut hand toward Grace.

  She had a steadier touch than him. He trusted her to sterilize the wound without damaging the surrounding tissue. She pulled the Cinderbone out by the leather wrapping and approached him, the flat edge of the iron glowing red.

  David closed his eyes.

  The hot metal seared his flesh with a sizzle, and he hissed. Grace jerked the iron off, holding it back to keep it from touching the flammable tent walls.

  He panted, letting the glove fall from his mouth, and examined the burn. She had done a careful job, searing the wound while protecting as much as she could of the flesh around it. A blister could cause an infection too. “Thank you.” He lay back on the sleeping bag, closing his eyes. His hand burned like a spark danced across his skin.

  Grace curled up next to him. In a pinch, David imagined they could cram four or five people in the small tent. The fire would go out in the night, but they kept warm next to each other.

  “There’s a meeting tomorrow,” Grace murmured. “The deputy said government leaders will be there. Some big announcement.”

  David harrumphed. “I won’t be there. Have to work. Take notes for me.”

  Grace didn’t respond, and moments later her breathing deepened.

  Only then did David pull out the slip of paper the man had smuggled to him. He slid it open and read the slanted handwriting by firelight.

  Cinderbone is ready. We act tomorrow.

  His heartbeat quickened, chasing away any sleepiness.

  Time to pay Kip.