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consider the way the rain of arrows started
     again just as suddenly as it stopped. As if the distraction Julio provided had vanished
     like smoke.
    They hike all day to reach the cave. The climb is steep, and the little ones tire
     quickly. She and Julio reached it in half that time, on that precious, precious day
     months ago.
    It’s exactly the way she remembered, with a sun-soaked ledge outside the crooked opening.
     The air is drenched with a clean, sharp scent from the juniper surrounding the ledge,
     keeping the cave invisible from below. What she doesn’t see is any sign of life. No campfire. No footprints. No Julio.
    She helps the tiny, coughing girl onto the ledge, then Mara abandons the children
     to rush inside the cave. “Julio?” she calls, and her voice echoes back with emptiness.
     “Julio?” she repeats, as if calling louder will summon him.
    Someone comes to stand beside her. “He’s not here, is he?” Adán says.
    “He will come,” Mara says, though her gut twists. She takes a deep breath. “All right,
     everyone. Let’s get settled. Reynaldo, if you build that fire, I’ll make a soup tonight.”
    The cavern already boasts a fire pit in its center. It’s a narrow but long chamber,
     with a ceiling high enough that only she and Reynaldo must hunch over. She knows from
     experience that cracks in the ceiling provide an outlet for smoke. There is plenty
     of room for all nine of them during the day, but a shortage of level floor space will
     make sleeping a challenge. There might be space for everyone if she, Adán, and Reynaldo
     sleep outside on the ledge, rotating watches.
    Mara throws together a thin soup of jerky with onions and garlic. As they take turns
     spooning it from her cooking pot, she sizes up the group. She is the oldest, at seventeen.
     Reynaldo is fifteen, Adán fourteen. Everyone else is younger, down to the tiny girl,
     who can’t be more than four. Mara is glad to note that her coughing has subsided,
     and it no longer turns up blood. Maybe something will go right for them after all.
    She doesn’t know all their names. Her village isn’t that large, but skirmishes with
     the Inviernos have caused a lot of migration among the hill folk, and when the animagus
     burned her village, it was half full of strangers.
    She could ask their names. She should ask their names. But she’s suddenly overcome with the sense that she might learn
     who they are only to see them die.
    Later. She’ll ask later. She wants to be silent and alone with her thoughts a little
     bit longer.
    Looking into their ash-covered faces, their eyes filled with both hope and terror,
     Mara marvels at how two such opposite-seeming emotions can exist inside her. She wants
     to save them. But bitterness grinds away at her heart too. These are the children
     of the people who turned blind eyes to her pain. They bought her pastries and her
     wool quick enough, but never in her life did anyone ask, “Mara, how are you really ?” Until Julio.
    Once Julio arrives, she won’t have to be in charge anymore. He’ll be the oldest of
     their group, at nineteen. He’s confident and outgoing, well liked by everyone. He’ll
     know how to deal with the children. Julio likes taking care of people. He’ll relish
     the responsibility.
    Mara is about to go out to the ledge to take the first watch, but the tiny girl toddles
     over. Mara sits as still as a statue as the girl climbs into her lap. She grabs a
     fistful of Mara’s shirt and snuggles in tight. Then Carella’s daughter sidles up,
     lays her head on Mara’s thigh, and falls fast asleep.
    After a moment, Mara’s shoulders relax. She wraps one arm around the tiny girl and
     lets her other hand rest on Carella’s daughter’s silky head.

8

    T HE next morning, Julio still has not come. Adán stands on the ledge, gazing down the
     mountain. He is a lot like his brother—the same long limbs, the same straight black
     hair bleached red at the temples. His hands