No one will ever find me.
“They won’t be able to track us,” I say, more to myself than to him.
“They will.”
I look at him sharply.
“What?”
“They track.”
Same word, but said with a different weight. Enough that I understand he doesn’t mean the predator; he’s referring tosomething else, but the way he says it, I don’t think he means my people.
“Who tracks?” I ask.
His attention shifts downward, then outward, then up, scanning in a pattern I’m starting to recognize.
“They do.”
Cold and certain. It’s not a guess or a possibility. It’s a fact. A chill slides down my spine despite the heat.
“Your people?” I ask.
“No,” he says firmly.
“Then who?” Silence. He doesn’t look at me and it’s clear that the answer isn’t coming, but I push anyway. “They’re looking for you.”
I make it a statement this time, testing his reactions. His shoulders tighten. It’s subtle, but there.
“Yes,” he says softly.
I slow a fraction, my mind catching up to the shift.
“Not just me,” I say, not a question. He doesn’t change the pace or visibly react.
“No.”
Two searches. My people and whoever he… what? Escaped from? The scars, the tension, the blank stare in his eyes… it would make sense. I glance out over the dunes again, the emptiness suddenly feeling less empty.
“They’ll find us,” I say.
He doesn’t slow or turn. He doesn’t even hesitate.
“Bad.”
“What?” I blink.
“Find.”
I stare at him.
“That’s not—” I stop, frustration flaring. “They’re trying to help.”
“No.”
Flat and certain, like everything else he says. I shake my head, pushing forward to keep up with him as he crests another rise.
“You don’t know them.”
