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No exceptions.

The penalty for violation is a public flogging—if you’re lucky. If you’re not, you disappear into the back of a Guard wagon, and your name is never spoken again.

Arlo sighs and steps closer, gripping the front of my cloak, dragging me against him in a way that I have to tilt my head back to hold his gaze.

“When was the last time you ate, Ali?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

“When did Sable eat?”

I swallow thickly.

“That’s what I thought.” His eyes search my face, and whatever he finds there makes his expression harden. “People are starving. We are starving. Sable needs food, and so does Angie.”

That shuts me up because he’s right. Angie, his little sister, can barely stand most mornings. Her body is at war between the illness in her heart and the emptiness in her stomach.

And Sable? Every night, I wrap her up in my arms, sharing what little warmth I have, making sure no one can rip her from our bed without me knowing, but the rigid lines of her ribcage get more prominent every day.

I’m watching her disappear, and I can’t do a damn thing about it.

Arlo can read the pain in my expression too well. “We’ll be careful, and if we catch something, Crawly won’t punish us if he is eating too.” His voice drops to a whisper. “We won’t get caught.”

I swallow hard, remembering the crack of the belt against Arlo’s bare back. The way his skin split as my mistake was carved into his flesh in front of everyone.

“And if trouble comes from this, you tell them I forced you. I made you do it,” he says, pressing his forehead against mine. “Let me take care of you, Ali. Everything’s going to be okay.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head with a heavy sigh.

“Okay,” I whisper.

The tension in his shoulders eases, and he takes my hand again to drag us forward. Despite the fear of getting caught, the thought of fish is all I can hold onto. It’s been too long since any of us have felt full.

Now that all the livestock and animals are gone, we’ve had to survive on boiled grain that has made most of us sick from weevil contamination, but even the contaminated grain is running out.

Madam Claudia was arguing with her husband just last night, and though I couldn’t hear every word through the thin walls of the main house, the panic in her voice was enough to know how bad things are.

We cross the frozen fields at a half-run, jogging through what’s left of the rows of corn, our boots crunching through the fallen husks. Out here in the open, the wind burns my cheeks, and every breath fills my lungs with an icy ache.

Arlo pulls me along, his hand tightening over mine every time he feels my feet slow. It would be easier to turn back now, curl up next to Sable, and pretend none of this is happening.

But pretending won’t feed anyone, and Arlo is right; Sable isn’t getting any better the longer she goes without proper food.

We cut behind the grain silos and then slip between two collapsing fences where the path turns to mud.

Every time Arlo stops, I freeze. Every time he moves, I scramble to keep up. The repercussions for breaking the law are terrifying, but with Arlo leading the way, the burden of every decision isn’t mine to carry.

When it’s just me and my sister, I have to make all the decisions, knowing that the wrong one could cost me everything. In Arlo’s presence, I’m not a caretaker or a provider; I’m just taken care of, provided for, safe. And I hate that some quiet, stubborn part of me bristles at it because being taken care of is just another word for handing someone else the reins, and I don’t trust easily, especially where Sable is concerned.

We smell the town square before we step into it. The flesh markets are quiet before the world wakes, sitting ominously behind the locked iron gates, but that doesn’t contain the rot and decay wafting through the bars.

Something clatters from the row of cages, and I duck instinctively. The last thing I need is to catch the eye of the warden, who sometimes sleeps on a bench by the entrance with a bottle cradled in his arms.

The buildings here are so weathered that nothing is straight anymore. Windows lean. Doors sag. I keep thinking we’ll run into the King’s Guard posted somewhere, but so far, nothing.

We skirt the edge of the square, straight past the market gates with their rusted signage. We take a sharp turn down the alley beside the bakery. The shelves look cleaned out, not even crumbs left for the birds. My stomach gnaws at itself, wondering what real food even tastes like anymore.

We pass behind the clothing shop, the barren shelves and empty wire hangers just visible through the gaping hole where the window used to be.

Raided and cleaned out, just like everything else.