The outskirts camp was a cart, a lean-to, a cook fire, and a mule, set up in a dry field past the edge of town where nobody collected rent. Kat had pictured something grimmer. It was just small, a whole life folded down to what a mule could pull.
Samara's mother sat near the cook fire, thinner, with a faded service mark inked at the base of her throat. She stayed where she was as Kat came up the track. Visitors had not been good news for this family in a long time.
Samara came around the cart fast, then stopped.
She covered her surprise well. Her face went flat, her arms crossed, her weight settled. But Kat had spent two lifetimes learning to catch the first half-second before people fixed their faces, and Samara's first half-second had been real alarm.
Someone had walked up to the one thing she cared about. That was clearly not good.
"How did you find this place?" Samara said.
"Vessa told me. She tailed you. She felt terrible about it, if that helps."
