Hazel Penelope's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

By the next morning, the girl's fever had broken, and Hazel let herself believe the day might be quiet. Then the scout from the watchtower came down the ladder fast. A painted van had been spotted moving along one of the journal's routes. Strangers. Armed. Closing on the city. Hazel climbed the tower herself to see. Through the cracked railing, she watched the bright shape crawl between broken buildings, orange and graffitied, impossible to miss. Whoever drove it wanted to be seen. Ash whined at the base of the stairs. The journal's routes were no longer theirs alone. She pulled her three quiet realists into the cave they used for hard talks, where the walls glowed and no voices carried. She laid out the problem plain. The rival group was faster, louder, and ahead of them on the map. If the old city's caches were taken first, the group would not last the winter. Libby Thorne spoke first. "We can't outrun a van. We can reach the closest cache by dark if we leave now." She did not look away. "I'll go. I cook, I patch, I haul. I can carry." Hazel studied her, then nodded once. The decision was made in the space of a breath. They moved before noon — Libby, two others, and Hazel. They reached the nearest marked cache while the van was still circling the far edge. Water jugs, sealed cans, a crate of salt. They loaded what they could and left the rest hidden under stone. On the way back, Lyra was waiting at the gate. She looked at Libby's full pack and said, "You came back." Libby touched her hair. "I said I would." Hazel stood at the watchtower that night, counting jugs by lamplight. They had won this one cache. But the van was still out there, and the journal's other routes were already half-lost. The group had food for another month. After that, she would have to choose whether to fight for the map or let it go.