When I emerge from my hiding place each evening, the sun is waning, shadows stretching across the salt pan until the heavy collapse of the night swallows me up and the land with it. I find beauty in the darkness and laugh at myself for it. I know I’m being sappy.

Early one evening, as I’m bypassing an abandoned town—a relic of empty buildings and crumbled concrete—I turn a corner and there’s a creek. The creek is black and covered in patches of orange toxic froth. The closer I come to the foamy fluid, the harder it is to breathe. I hold my nose as I pass, shivering at this noxious stuff that passes for water.

Anxious to get away from the fumes, I stride purposefully, my mind on the trek ahead of me; my eyes, evidently, elsewhere. I trip, falling forward over an obstacle in my path, and hold out my hands to catch myself. “Oof…oww!”

“What the…!”

“Hey!”

“Get off!”

I roll sideways, stunned by the appearance of a boy.

“Why don’tcha watch where you’re going?” he snaps.

“What were you doing? Sleeping in the middle of the path?”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he says, grumpily. “And this isn’t a path.”

My eyes follow the cleared space into the distance. “It is a path.” I pause, frowning at the untidy person before me. “What are you doing?”

“Studyin’ something.”

He stretches back out on the ground, pulling his head and shoulders onto the path again—it is a path—and I can’t help but admire the look of him. He’s attractive in a lanky, loose-jointed sort of way. He has sandy brown hair, and I notice immediately his striking eyes, not the washed-out blue of the sky, but a blue that’s bright and penetrating.

I’m not imagining things. It’s a boy. And not like the weathered travelers who would appear at the orphanage hoping for a handout, but someone my own age. The last time I saw a boy my age was when the Garner Home invited the nearest boys’ home to attend a day-long training session on the vegetation drought response index.

I crouch down to see what he’s doing and wince, suddenly aware that my palms are scraped and bleeding. Toxic soil in an open wound can be deadly. Thank goodness I received a tetanus shot last year. And, I’ve got antiseptic in my pack. Gingerly this time, I inch toward the ground, my eyes following his to…what?

“What is it?” I whisper.

“It’s a toad, you idiot.”

I don’t see why he has to be snippy. I can see it’s a toad, but like no toad I’ve ever encountered before. It’s a mature deviant.

The creature in question is hopping, sort of, but is unable to travel in a straight line. It moves sideways, topples over, rights itself, then hops sideways again, and falls.

The toad has five legs and two of the legs jut out the side of his body, not beneath, like the others. It’s impossible for him to hop properly.

The deviants are the plants and animals—often babies—that have been twisted by toxins in the air and soil and water, and in the microscopic cells of mothers everywhere. From birth, they’re penalized. Most die early. A few survive.

“What should we do?” I ask, looking to this boy for an answer. “Should we put it out of its misery?”

“Maybe we should put you out of your misery,” he responds hotly.

I sit back on my heels, caught off guard by his hostility. What does he mean? Is he implying…? But how could he…?

Abruptly, he stands. “What’d this toad ever do to you?” Picking up the unbalanced creature, he moves it carefully into an area thick with dead, tangled vines. I watch him carefully, trying to decide what to do. I don’t know much about boys, and I’m curious to see what he’ll do next. He seems harmless enough. Once he’s satisfied the toad is in a protected spot, he turns back.

“My name’s Kira,” I say, sticking out my hand. I want to be nice. This boy’s prickly, but he’s the first person my age I’ve seen in a long time. Suddenly, I snatch my hand back, realizing that in order to shake it, he must touch it with the hand that only seconds earlier held the toad.

He looks at me with a disdain that makes me feel small inside.

“It’s not contagious,” he says, his voice soft.

I flush angrily. “I know that.”

A silent pause stretches between us. Our gazes are assessing, cautious.

“I’m J.D.,” he says finally. He reaches behind a pile of rocks and pulls out a backpack. “You can walk with me a ways if you want.”

“Um…okay.”

Silently, I fall into place beside him, watching him out of the corner of my eye. I like the way he moves, easily, slender hips pulling the rest of him forward.

“Where’re you headed?” he asks.

“Delta Territory.”

His eyes widen, darting to mine. “The Dead Lakes Region?”

“To Slag.”

He stumbles, catching himself before he hits the ground. “Why in the world would you go there? It’s nothing but a ghost town.”

I shrug. Everyone knows Slag’s uninhabitable. Of course, it wasn’t always a desolate place, and it wasn’t always called Slag. Once upon a time, the city had a lovely name and houses with kids playing in front yards. Years of industrial development along the shores of the Lakes Region eventually gave way to a completely toxic environment. Then the city was hit hard by the Devastation, chemical and biological warfare that spread across continents and still created casualties years after the surrender, as chemicals and enzymes mixed with other substances and evolved into something unforeseen.

“What about you?” I ask.

“I go where the wind takes me,” he says, lifting one bony shoulder.

I lick my finger and stick it high into the air, testing. “What wind?”

He scowls.

“Just kidding,” I say quickly. I don’t know this boy well enough to make jokes at his expense. He’s the first person I’ve had to talk with in days. The last thing I want is to offend him.

“Do you have family?” I ask.

“Nope.”

“Me neither.” I fiddle with the strap of my backpack. “What does ‘J.D.’ stand for?”

“Just Deserts,” he says shortly. “As in ‘some day, I will get my just deserts.’”

I stare at him blankly. His expression gives nothing away.

“I don’t believe you,” I say finally. “Besides, are you so sure that getting your just desserts will be a good thing?”

He doesn’t answer and we walk for a moment in silence.

“So how long have you been traveling?” I ask.

He shoots me a glance, but doesn’t slow down. “I don’t really like chit chat.”

“Oh. Yeah. Me neither.”

For a while, I hum softly under my breath. I’m feeling delighted with myself, to have found someone to keep me company, even for a little while. “I’ve got trail mix in my pack, and algae bars—if you get hungry later, I mean.”

I don’t tell him I’ve learned to steal, raiding the larders of lonely outposts or sneaking into empty kitchens after dark. I figure if he’s been out walking very long, he’s developed his own nimble fingers. At least I try to repay my burglaries by leaving behind a small pond or a suddenly full gully.

J.D. eyes me, then my backpack, his expression a little too uninterested to be believed. “Sure.”

I smile and forge ahead. I’m halfway there.