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DON SHOOK HIM AWAKE in the pre-dawn light, his other hand clamped over Amos’s mouth to muffle any sound. Amos came to with a start, his mind glacially clear and alert. Many years of practice had perfected that particular skill.
“Time to move,” Don said, his gruff voice low as he removed his hand. He gestured around their meager campsite. “Make it look like we were never here.”
Amos nodded, blinking as he roused himself, and assisted Don in eliminating any trace of their presence. It didn’t take long. They were traveling light, and what little gear they had left with them.
They shouldered their packs and set out at a brisk pace as the sun peeked over the horizon. Amos led with a sure stride over the carpet of pine needles, confident he could find the cave from any direction.
He didn’t realize he was frowning until Don interrupted his pensive thoughts.
“Stop it.” The big man glanced down at his fellow hiker. “Garr’s right, you need to stop beating yourself up. He was referring to the attack on the Mission, but I mean the whole lot of it. Your brother’s an even bigger liability than what happened at the Mission. You’ve got to let it go.”
Right. Don knows. Amos exhaled with a frustrated sigh. I told him, after all. He kept his gaze on the route ahead, but he knew he couldn’t ignore Don’s comment.
“I dreamed about it again last night,” he said. “When I woke up this morning, it’s like I’m twelve years old again. The flashback is that fresh.”
Don stared at him, his expression hard to read. “Doc probably has some official term for that. But at the risk of repeating myself, I need Amos the Runner on this foray, not the traumatized twelve-year-old version.”
Amos knew he was right, but it was easier said than done. Survivor guilt, Doc called it. But he wasn’t guilty just because he survived. No, he’d deserted his own flesh and blood because he was scared and hungry.
He’d tried convincing himself there was nothing he could’ve done if the Hoarders had found them—again, it was the truth. It still felt like a cheap way of dodging responsibility for what he’d done.
Don stopped in his tracks, using the long reach of his burly arm to restrain Amos. He paused for a long moment, towering over him—Don towered over most people, except Garr—choosing his words carefully.
“Look, Amos, I’m no head doctor. I’m not trying to get inside your brain and rearrange the deck chairs. I’m just telling you what Doc has said, what Garr’s said, and what you know needs to be said. Your brother Trey is dead. He’s been dead for a long time.”
Amos felt his jaw clench, matching his fists. He was surprised to hear how controlled his voice sounded when he spoke.
“Don, I’m really beginning to regret telling you anything.” He uttered the words calmly, but he knew Don wouldn’t miss the fire in his eyes.
Don didn’t budge, nor did he blink. Amos exhaled, forcing himself to relax. Don’s your friend, you idiot.
“Your brother Trey is dead,” the big man repeated, emphasizing his point by poking Amos in the chest with a thick finger. “And he’s going to get us killed, too, if you don’t stop blaming yourself. Your focus is weak, your reflexes are off, and your self-confidence is shot. I don’t need your dead brother’s weak little sibling. I need you, Amos, and my life actually does depend on it.”
They stood—eye-to-eye and toe-to-toe—for a long moment. The only sound was the faint sigh of evergreen branches in the wind. Amos refused to break eye contact, glaring up at Don in defiance.
“It’s not like there’s an ‘on/off’ switch in my head.” He managed to grind the words out. “Don speaks and Amos instantly deals with fifteen years of nightmares.”
Don raised an eyebrow. “And your other option is . . .?”
They stared at each other for another long minute before Amos relented. “You can count on me, Don.” Somewhere deep down, he felt just a little lighter for saying it. “We have a mission to complete. I’ve got your back.”
Don clapped him on the shoulder with a massive hand. “Good. Now, let’s get this done. Whatever Doc learns from studying your Implant might give us a clue what the Hoarders are up to with their fancy tech. At the very least, it might help us when a Tracker comes scanning.”
He paused, his voice softening. “It’s not a stretch to say we’re doing this for Trey. Think of it that way, if it helps.”
Amos straightened. The muscles in his back tightened, pulling at the stitches under his ribs. Where his Implant used to be. He nodded. “For Trey.”