3.

The roll nearly dissolves as soon as it reaches my tongue. My eyes close, and I savor the buttery wheat flavor. My brain tells my mouth to move up and down, to grind the bite into smaller and smaller pieces so my stomach can process the remnants with ease.

And then I swallow.

Mama and Mattie assess me with their wide eyes. I take another bite, just in case the first wasn’t tainted. Then another, and another.

Nothing.

“I’ll try the rest,” I say, moving on to the next tray of food. It’s some conglomeration of fruit in a pudding. Mattie licks his lips and takes a step toward the bar.

“Not yet,” Mama whispers against his hair.

I pick up a piece of fruit and toss it into my mouth. Chew. Swallow. Repeat with another portion.

Still nothing.

I do this until I’ve tasted everything on the bar, and come to the conclusion that nothing is poisonous, that these gypsies really do want to help us.

“Go for it!” I say. I’ve never seen Mattie eat so fast. Mama too. By the time they finish, they’re laid out by the window, while I pick at the leftovers.

“Bless these people,” Mama says. She rubs her stomach, then leans over and kisses Mattie’s forehead. He fell asleep not long after his belly stopped arguing with him. 

“We’ve been moving for a while. Where do you think they’re headed?” I ask.

“I haven’t really thought about it, I guess. I was too busy pigging out.” She giggles. It’s good to hear that laugh; I don’t remember the last time she expressed any emotion other than worry or pain.

The wagon comes to a sudden halt. So sudden, in fact, that I have to grip onto the buffet bar for support.

A loud knock comes from the back door. Before we have a chance to respond, it swings open and a boy, no older than me, clears his throat. “We’re camping for the night.”

“Okay,” I say, hopping out of the back. I hadn’t realized it became dark. In the distance, I see the stars raining down in blazing clusters and wonder if they’re landing anywhere we’ve been.

Another yellow and orange flame flickers nearby—the gypsies have set up a campfire, and have begun to dance around it.

“What are they doing?” I ask the boy who told us we stopped for the night.

“They’re praising the stars for letting them live one more day,” he says.

“We should all be dancing, then.”

His mouth twists into a half-grin.

Mama joins me in watching the celebration. Tambourines, drums and flutes play a harmony in the background. Feet move in a rhythmic direction, all in sync, and glittering fabrics ripple in the night. They begin chanting. The fire bursts into hundreds of sparks as they throw salt into the flames.

I stand in awe, having never seen anything like this before.

“They’ll end soon,” the boy says. “Before the cold reaches us.”

I gaze up at the sky, as if the chilly air comes in the form of one large cloud. We can’t see it, nor can we hear it. It can materialize within minutes, or hours.

“Tonight you dance,” the old woman who led us here says. “You thank them.” She points toward the heavens.

“Oh, no, I can’t dance,” I protest, but she urges me toward the fire. 

“Dance, dance, dance!” She waves her arms in the air as she encourages me to join in the tangles and twists of the ancient step.

For reasons unknown to me, I listen. I let my feet carry me, gliding with the exotic music. My head falls back and I watch the stars, like they’re my personal audience, like the dance really is meant for them.

The music rises in cadence. The beat pounds through my skin and into my veins. Throbbing. Pulsing. Throbbing. Pulsing. Over and over again, until it suddenly dies. My feet want to continue, but I have to force them to stop.

The old gypsy woman hands me a canteen brimming with water. “I think they’re pleased with you.”

I nod to satisfy her, but all of it is nonsense. Stars can’t hear our prayers. They’re just a fragment of the universe, masses which take up space then wreak havoc on those smaller than them. Like big bullies.

We’re all part of the universe. We all serve some purpose. There’s an explanation for us existing after the asteroids began falling a few years ago.

We’re not weak.

We don’t take life for granted.

We’re survivors.

4.

I dream of growing fat from eating too much, and sleeping long after the sun’s rays burn through white-laced curtains.

I dream of the earth, how it used to be—non-mutated animals, fragrant flowers, skyscrapers clustered together, and the murky pond behind our house in the Old World.

But most of all, I dream that one day everyone will be happy again, and the stars will stop falling.

5.

After traveling for two days with the gypsies, I begin to resent the fact that we won’t be around them much longer. But I don’t know how we would’ve made it this far without their help.

“We have to say our goodbyes and move on,” Mama says. She speaks to us in the covered caravan. “We’ve been trying to reach Legora for almost two weeks. We can’t change our plans.”

She’s right. As much as I hate to admit it, we can’t stay with these people forever. Plus, I promised myself that I’d get us all to Legora safely. I silently swore it for Dad, too. I know that’s what he would’ve wanted.

“I agree,” I say, standing up from the window bench. “I mean, that’s what we set out to do. We might as well finish.”

Mattie huffs and crosses his arms, pouting.

“We’ll stay with them one more night, and leave early, before daylight blisters everything in its path,” says Mama.

One more night of being well fed. One more night of my mouth never succumbing to dehydration. Inside, I feel how Mattie looks. But I have to agree with Mama that we’ll never reach Legora if we stay—no matter how kind the gypsies are to us.

Soon, darkness will descend and the nighttime critters will come out to play. Mangals—birds with night vision and a ten-foot wing span. Desert scorps that have instant-death poison in their claws. Snakes that twist and coil their way around bodies, suffocating to the last breath.

This is why nobody with a brain lingers in the darkness. Beside the cold, there’s always the fear of mutations.

The wagon we’ve been riding in for the last few days has halted. Outside, it seems more weary travelers have found our group. As they did with us, the gypsies lead three men to the back of another wagon.

Without blinking, one of the men pulls out a knife, slicing the throat of a gypsy. Yells and screams smother the air around us. Another gypsy falls, blood staining the dust below her body.

“What’s going on out there? Why’s everyone screaming and running away?” Mama asks.

“You and Mattie stay here. There are three vagabonds killing at will.”

Mama clutches Mattie closer to her chest. “Don’t you even think about going out there, Andy!”

“These gypsies have nothing to protect them. I can’t just stand back and let people die when they need help. They saved us. Why can’t I save them?”

Mama rocks Mattie back and forth in her arms. He looks wide-eyed at me. This is one of those times I wish he’d say something, voice his opinion.

Someone hits the wagon with a splat; their face pressed to the single window.  Their body collapses not even a second later. Mama begins to cry at the sight. Mattie’s eyes stay directed on me, as if he’s trying to tell me something. I can’t read him, though.

“I’ll be right back. Promise,” I say.

“Andy, no!” Mama screams, reaching for me, but I jump out of the wagon before she catches me.

Outside, chaos has opened its wide mouth and spit out vile humans. Some of the gypsies have sought shelter on top of the wagons. The three men are separated, which is good if I’m going to fight them.

One is after a woman two wagons behind mine. A male gypsy jumps the man and is stabbed repeatedly in the stomach. The woman screams, squirming to get out of the grasp of her attacker.

That’s when I move, unsheathing the dagger my father used. The same dagger I’ve carried with us throughout our journey. Dad taught me when I was a child how to kill animals for food. Down. Up. Down. Up. One swift motion each way.

But now that I know it’ll be used on a fellow human being, I’m having second thoughts. Can I do this without getting myself injured or killed?

I stalk behind the wagon, careful with each step, checking over my shoulder. The assailant has the poor gypsy woman on the ground, her skirt ripped to the waist. Before he fulfills his needs, I dart behind him. Down. Up. Down. Up. The flesh on his back is shredded. Blood sprays from the gaping wounds. He’s alert long enough to give me a glance, then he collapses on top of the woman. She screams, and rolls him off.

And me? I just stand there with a bloody dagger and a sore conscience, wondering how I’m going to finish off the other two. I have to move fast before they realize their cohort is dead.

I stay behind the wagons, stopping at the end of each to observe the men. They’re together, and not far. Both are tipping drinking canisters to the sky, liquid spilling over their mouths and chins, down their shirts. Like they’re celebrating the dead bodies scattered around them. 

“How am I going to do this?” I whisper to myself.

“I’ll help,” a voice behind me says. I jump, startled that I didn’t hear him sneak up. He’s the same boy from the night of dancing.

“How?”

He flicks the weapon at his side, so it catches the sunlight. A knife. This might actually work.

I nod. “We need a plan.”

“Don’t stop until they’re dead?” He smirks.

“Yeah, that’s, uh—that’s a good plan.”

“I’ll catch them off guard by facing them, then you can come around the back. We’ll have the upper hand.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Me too. Good luck.” He motions for me to start around the backside of one of the wagons. I creep, careful not to step on anything that will notify the attackers of my whereabouts.

Laughter comes from the men when the boy steps into view. They probably think it’ll be easy to take him down, a young and naïve kid. That’s where I come in. They won’t notice me until it’s too late.

Down. Up. Down. Up.

Dad’s voice hums through my ears as if he were standing next to me.

“You gotta be swift about it. Don’t hesitate,” he had said.

Well, I’ve already killed one. What’s two more? I don’t think the realization that I murdered somebody has actually hit me yet. Maybe in an hour, but not now. I have to focus, keep my mind clear. 

I hug the back of the wagon, getting close enough that I can peer around the side and see where the two men stand. Each of them has a machete that could slice a buffant in two. They take a step toward the boy, whose name I have yet to learn.

I slip behind them.

Down. Up. Down. Up.

One finished, one left.

He aims for me, raising his arm and the long weapon. I dodge out of the way, but not fast enough. The edge of his blade slices through my shirt and leaves a gash across my arm. I cry out. The boy gets him from behind, except he doesn’t cut like me; he jabs his knife into the man’s back over and over, mercilessly, until the attacker lands on the ground with a thud. Desert sand billows up in a cloud around his body, like the clouds that destroyed earth several years ago.

We both stand there, letting our minds process the past fifteen minutes worth of events. Did I kill someone? Did this just happen? I mean, I always knew to protect my family, but never dreamed I’d do this.

I glance over at the boy. He stares wide-eyed at the pile of bodies around us, but mostly at the man he just killed. My arm is dripping blood.

“What’s your name?” I ask roughly, applying pressure to my wound.

It takes a moment for my voice to register, but when it does, he looks up and answers, “Malik. My name is Malik.”