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AN UNMISTAKABLE HINT of winter’s approach hung in the air, adding its frosty bite to Amos’s every breath. The forested heights would soon be wrapped in a white cocoon of snow, probably within a few weeks.
But this afternoon, standing in front of the cave, Amos enjoyed the sun’s welcome warmth through his jacket.
Their final celebration in the Hub had been memorable. Amos could still smell the mouth-watering aroma of Don’s signature feast.
Turns out, the guy can cook, after all.
The food and camaraderie, as much as Amos enjoyed it, left him with a gnawing restlessness. More was needed, and today’s trek up the rocky hillside was the result.
He slipped out of his shoulder straps, dropping to one knee as he lowered the rucksack to the ground.
The flap rustled as he opened it, the fabric stiff from the cold. The slight noise seemed too loud in the crisp air, a sacrilegious intrusion to the perfect stillness.
He retrieved his Implant, and laid the despised piece of Hoarder technology on the boulder over the cave’s mouth.
He stared at it for a long time, re-living the moment he’d first seen it, freshly cut from beneath his ribs, glistening wet and red in his palm.
Today was different.
No tiny pinpricks of light danced across its metal surface—blue, red, white, green. No microscopic filaments needled in and out of either end, eager to inject their unsuspecting host with homicidal poison.
It lay where he’d deposited it, lifeless and inert.
He reached into the rucksack again, seizing the handle of the tool he’d borrowed from Enrico. The wooden shaft, worn smooth by many years of hard use, felt good in his hand. He hefted it, testing its weight and balance.
This is why I came back here.
He wasted no time, raising the hammer and pounding the Implant against the unyielding rock. The sharp blows rang in his ears, reverberating with concussive echoes throughout the silent forest.
Satisfied, he dropped the hammer into the open rucksack. The frosty air chilled his fingers as he brushed the Implant’s flattened remnants into his palm.
Amos crouched and flung the shattered bits as far as he could into the cave. He dusted off what little stuck to his palm, and stood upright.
The moment was over.
“Feel any better now?”
Jane’s voice was subdued in the natural cathedral. It was an honest question, with little hint of her usual sarcasm.
Amos glanced into the cave’s dark maw, but saw no trace of his Implant. “I’m not sure how I feel. It’s something I knew I had to do. Closure, maybe.”
Jane dropped to a knee beside him, pushing the hammer aside as she dug her handgun out of the rucksack. The shiny metal stood out in sharp contrast to the colorful autumn leaves scattered across the steep hillside.
Jane cradled the gun in her hands, studying it wordlessly. With a half-hearted flip of her wrist, she tossed it into the cave. The gun bounced as it fell—once, twice—the sharp ping of its progress much less punishing than Amos’s hammering.
Jane stood, gazing into the cave, her expression difficult to read. Amos watched her closely, but she didn’t return his gaze. He kept silent, waiting for what he hoped was a respectful length of time.
“What about you, Jane?” he asked tentatively. “How do you feel?”
“Cold,” she replied, gazing into the distance.
She cupped her hands together, breathing on her fingers to warm them. “I don’t know. Maybe I was expecting too much. I’m not even sure what I hoped this would accomplish.”
She gestured half-heartedly at the cave. “None of this brings back the people we’ve lost. It’s just a symbolic gesture. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Amos looked at his feet, then into the cave, and finally, down the steep slope to his brother’s unmarked grave. It was blanketed under frosted orange and yellow leaves, but he knew exactly where to find it.
He would always know where to find it.
“The Givers are gone,” he said, quietly, urgently. “So are the Trackers, and the Implants. Maybe that doesn’t bring back the people we’ve lost, but it means it’s not going to happen to anybody else, ever again.”
He scooped up the rucksack, slinging it over his shoulder. “And it means our future doesn’t have to look like the past. We had a hand—all of us—in creating that future. That’s not symbolic, Jane. It’s real.”
Jane drew a deep lungful of cold air and exhaled in a white cloud of condensation. She glanced at him, the beginnings of a smile toying at the corners of her mouth.
“I like the way you said that. It was profound.” She tried to repress the smile. “You surprise me sometimes, Amos.”
Amos chuckled, stamping his numbed feet. “Gee, thanks, Jane . . . I think.”
She laughed aloud, surprising him. It was a spontaneous, genuine sound.
When was the last time she enjoyed a good laugh? Amos couldn’t recall, but hearing it gave him hope. “Maybe you’re feeling better than you think, Jane.”
She faced him squarely, hands on her hips, head tilted to one side. “Call me Snake Lady.”
Amos laughed and sketched her a mock salute.
They turned their backs on the cave—and the grave—and began to retrace their steps.
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