Wix turned and peered up at the eastern wall of the canyon. He squinted and ran the back of his hand over his brow, breaking the line of sweat of which threatened to fall into his eye.

It was his first time in the compound. He didn't like it.

It was a lot of things. It was the rumble of the machinery. The clinking and clattering of chains. The way every intake of air seemed to carry with it the dirty taste of rust, and the sour tang of unwashed musk.

But it was the looks on people's faces he disliked the most. The prisoners. Sore and tired-looking, dragging bare feet across the shoal, wrists and ankles marked by red scrapes and yellow blisters.

Not for the first time, Wix felt silly for thinking of himself as a prisoner on his father's farm. This was what a real prison was.

However, this wasn't the reason he'd turned from his father, looking east. It was the gunshots. Ephemeral cracks of thunder which moved as if carried by the wind, catching on the lip of the canyon and dancing back and forth from wall to wall. The shots had mostly been intermittent, each a good half minute or so apart. Until the last two. They had been right up against one another.

It had seemed odd to Wix, but as he looked around, he noticed he was the only one who seemed to care. Everyone in the compound carried on as if used to such a thing.

Well, they would be, wouldn't they? An emerging thought in Wix's head. A sarcastic, self-critical voice that reminded him more than a little of his father. There's a military base just south of here. Right outside of town. Soldiers train and shoot there, almost every day.

But someone like you wouldn't think of that, would you?

Now wasn't the time to worry about that. Instead, he turned back to where Kedrik was talking with one of the mining overseers. Looked like he was haggling for some unprocessed Ruby.

What the man wanted with unprocessed crystal, Wix could hardly begin to imagine. To be honest, he didn't much care. Except that there wasn't much else to pay attention to, down here.

He stepped closer to where the deal was being made.

"...prefer if they were in smaller pieces," Kedrik was saying. "But I'll work with what I can get."

Kedrik paused. The dealer's attention had shifted. He was looking at Wix.

"That's your boy?" He said.

"He's mine," Kedrik said, sighing regrettably. "Though, I wouldn't call him my 'boy'. The word implies a measure of masculinity."

"Easy, old-timer," Wix said, parrying the banter. Because that was all it was. Banter. Better to make a game out of it than take it serious. More fun, that way. "I'll take your cane away."

"But at least he cares so dearly about his old man," Kedrik said, never taking his eyes off the dealer. Talking about Wix as if he wasn't standing right there.

The dealer, on the other hand, still seemed distracted by Wix's presence.

"You said your name was Kedrik?" He said.

"That I did."

"And your wife...Ivy something?"

"Ivalyse is her name," Kedrik said. His voice had begun to adopt a harder edge. Or perhaps a sharper one. There was a hint of impatience to it. Perhaps even a warning.

"That blonde lass people talk about?"

Wix leaned in. "Not blonde."

"What?" The dealer said. He was addressing Wix, now.

"She isn't blonde," Wix said. "She has red hair."

Kedrik turned on Wix, staring him down. The message was clear. But at the same time, it seemed like there was something else on his mind. Something he wasn't bothering to say, just now.

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He never liked it when Wix talked about Mother. No surprise, there.

The seller was still looking at Wix. There was curiosity, there. It was like he was trying to divine something about Wix, just by looking at him.

He was close to Kedrik in age. Heavier, with thick brows and a double chin.

"You know what they say about you, boy?" He said.

"People say all kinds of things about just about everyone," Wix said. He didn't like the man's tone. "It's a small town. People talk."

"They sure do," the dealer said. And for a second, it seemed as if he wanted to say more. Until Kedrik interrupted him.

"We going to make this deal, or not?"

"Does he know?" The heavy man said, turning back to Kedrik for the first time since he seemed to have noticed Wix.

"Know what?" Wix said, leaning closer.

Kedrik's arm shot out, grabbing Wix by the collar. He stepped in front of him, creating a wall between him and the heavier man. His face was flat, devoid of emotion. But in his eyes, a fire glowed. And from experience, Wix knew that this was when his father was the most dangerous. The most serious.

"We don't have time to trade gossip," Kedrik said. "We have work to do, and we have to make it back in time for the Shattering Day service."

"I thought you didn't care about church," Wix said, almost shocking himself with how quiet and level he'd kept his voice.

"I don't," Kedrik said. "But I made a promise to Jenny. That might not mean anything to you, but it does to me." He leaned close. He was breathing in sharp through his nose, nostrils flaring. "I don't want to deal with you getting into a fistfight over something you don't want to hear and didn't have to."

"And what would that be?" Wix said, refusing to budge. He stood firm, weathering the storm of Kedrik's rancid breath, an unholy concoction born from remnants of liquor, coffee, and tobacco, cloying the air.

"Hells if I know," Kedrik said. "Now go be a good boy, somewhere else, and wait til I call you."

"So now I'm a boy?" Wix said.

"You'll forgive the expression," Kedrik said. Another warning flare seemed to go off in his eyes.

Wix didn't like it. Any of it. But it seemed like a silly hill to die on. A strange place to draw the line. Besides, what did he care what the people of Tantern thought of him? He already knew he was a bit of a pariah. Living on a farm somewhere between town and the closest major city. Near Tantern, but not of it. Never participating in festivals or community events. Never able to make any friends with people his age. Never really wanting to begin with.

Of course they said things about him. And what did he care? It didn't bother him. It didn't bother him at all. Not one bit.

"Fine," Wix said. "Let me go."

Kedrik unclenched his fingers, gently releasing his grip. A small mercy. Wix had expected him to shove, like he normally did. And if he had, there really would have been a fistfight here. Between the two of them.

"Give me a few minutes," Kedrik said. And then he'd turned his back.

Wix followed the example. He adjusted the shoulder strap of his pack and began to walk.

If I really don't care, Wix thought, then why is it suddenly harder to breath? And why does my face feel so hot?

He moved south, down the middle of the canyon. One foot in front of the other, dragging on the ground. Wispy contrails of dust following in his wake. Half in and half out of the bar of shade cast by the east wall.

In the end, it didn't matter. None of it did. Tantern wasn't his home. His real home. But it was out there, somewhere. And he was going to find it. The place that he was going to make his home. Not this harsh, dusty landscape. Not a place propped up by chains and the broken backs of people from other lands. A place with air that glittered with crystal fumes.

Someplace new. A place...

Without guns.

The thought emerged from nothing, and disappeared just as mysteriously. As illusive as smoke in a windstorm.

Wix didn't hate guns. That wasn't it. Not really. Firearms were interesting. He found them fascinating. He'd read all about them. Studied them, in all their forms and functions.

In books, granted. Pictures and diagrams on flat, lifeless pages. Numbers and figures. Amounting to...what?

That's the difference, isn't it? The theory. And...the practice.

He tried to follow this train of thought. Grasped at it, like reaching for the tail of a kite that's been swept up by a sudden gale. Rising. Rising.

Gone.

Wix stopped in his tracks. Something had caught his eye. In his peripheral. Igniting a spark of recognition in his brain.

He scanned left, his eyes stopping as he faced the western wall of the canyon.

She was standing there, not ten paces from him. Standing in the sun. Bare feet. Torn clothes. Manacles clasped to her ankles and wrists. Locks of her dark hair falling in mussed and haphazard drifts. The girl from the train platform.

Beads of sweat glistened on her face and neck. On her eyelids and brow, threatening to drop into her eyes.

Wix found that he was staring at her. He wanted to ask her why she'd waved. Why she'd been looking at him that way, just off the train. But it suddenly seemed like a stupid thing to ask. In fact, it would be insensitive to say anything, at all.

Leave her alone. Leave her be.

Still, he was looking at her.

She returned the look. She was squinting, against the sun and against the sweat caught in her eyelashes. It seemed like there was something she wanted to say. Or at least something she felt she was supposed to say.

Eventually, she said, "Hey."

Then, her eyes rolled back. And her body began to tilt sideways. And she fell.