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afternoon sun making him look even older than he is. “Thanks for coming. I know what I’ve asked for you to be here. I know it hurts you to shoot someone.”
    “I’m glad I’m here, despite the guilt of what I know I might have to do.”
    She frowns. “I’m sorry it’s like this.”
    “I know you are. But I didn’t mention the guilt simply to make you understand how I feel.” His lined face grows dark. “I’ve killed twenty-one men in my life that I know of. I did it for my country. I did it to protect myself or someone I loved. But the regret is always there. I can only remember the first man’s face because I made myself forget after that. They all became the first because I couldn’t bear to recall each and every one of them individually. I thought it would be easier that way, but it’s not. The weight is still there.”
    Zoey stares at the deer. “I understand.”
    “Do you ever think about those who’ve fallen before you?”
    A tapestry of faces scrolls past her mind’s eye. She forces it to dissolve into a cold blankness. “Every day.”
    Ian appraises her and finally nods. “Let’s get him dressed out.” He hands her a knife and she moves to the rear of the animal. Ian’s radio crackles and Merrill’s voice comes through somewhat broken.
    “Ian, you there?”
    “Go ahead.”
    “The Suburban’s stuck at the entrance of the plain. It got high-centered on a rock we didn’t see.”
    “Do you need help?”
    “It wouldn’t hurt.”
    Ian gives her a look and she nods. “Go help them. I’ll finish this up.”
    The old man starts off at a trot in the direction of the lowest point of rock in the western sky. She breathes for a long moment, simply tasting the air. The sparse prairie grass mingles with the dull brown of scrub the higher the plain rises toward the looming mountain range. The sun is nearly touching the land behind her, warming her back as another gust of wind tosses her hair against her neck.
    She is still in awe of the world, struck silent at times by its openness, the vast beauty always stirring something inside her. She recalls the thought she had when they were preparing to attack the ARC a lifetime ago. She imagined being able to run free across a field without the fear of capture or death. A field kind of like this one.
    The urge to do just that, to sprint across the open plain, is so tempting she nearly stands up, but something on the eastern canyon side stops her.
    There it is again. A flash of light.
    A reflection.
    Binoculars or a scope.
    Zoey’s heart does a stutter step in her chest. As nonchalantly as she can, she reaches to the side, finding the rifle’s stock where it lies behind the animal.
    In one movement she yanks it from the ground and brings the scope to her eye. It takes several seconds to pinpoint the spot again; when she does she sees a flap of a fabric disappearing behind a rock.
    She adjusts herself, lying down so the rifle barrel rests on the deer’s carcass. Through the scope she finds the flash of movement again. It’s a man, young by all appearances, a gun strapped to his side. He runs in a straight line, climbing the rocky hill several hundred yards away. Runs with purpose.
    Her heart knocks against her rib cage, counting out split seconds.
    The choice presses down on her like a thousand pounds.
    Let him go or stop him?
    He could be another NOA spy. Shoot him.
    Or he could be innocent.
    Innocent people don’t run. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.
    The man climbs, hops behind a boulder, skips off another rock, and silhouettes himself against the sky at the top of the canyon.
    Zoey fires.
    The rifle kicks and she doesn’t wait to see if he’s fallen or not. She leaps up and sprints toward the rise, feet crushing small clumps of sage. The canyon wall looms above her and she slows, hearing the rumble of the Suburban’s engine in the distance. She considers waiting for them to arrive but pushes the thought aside. She could’ve missed. If she did, and he is a