I tell the group we're moving out. Supply run. If we don't restock before Phase Two, there won't be walls worth defending.
Lola is sitting in the sand near the dying pyre, dragging a stick in slow circles. The posture of a child who has been told the playground is closing.
"I just wanted one more shot," she mumbles. Not to me. To no one.
"Next wave," I tell her, "after my signal, you can shoot as many times as you want. Deal?"
She looks up. Something behind her half-lidded eyes catches fire.
"For real?"
I nod.
She's on her feet before the nod is finished, slinging her gear onto her back with the sudden, violent enthusiasm of someone who just received the best news of their life. The apathy evaporates like spit on a hot pan.
Terrifying child.
I turn to Rhayne. "You good to ride?"
