She stared out into the horizon. The sun hung there and blurry vision obscured how the rumors were right: it did sway slightly back and forth, an ornament on a bough. It hadn't moved for a long while and probably wouldn't for hours more. Days... go on for days, here. She had overheard Shane explain to his goddaughter the last time he draped thick, misshapen fabric over the windows: "Night doesn't come the same, anymore, so we have to make it."

Sterling's hand finds the small of her back and the farmer stiffens. The way he rustled through the grass was like the wind.

"No sign of 'em yet?" And his voice was as smoky — distant fires made all of the valley a kiln, and the peals of orange sunlight glazed it. the farmer belatedly realized it wasn't just him speaking, but a stilted voice was buzzing through the radio clipped to his back pocket. He wouldn't meet her eyes: "Zuzu's half razed now. Their station might give out on us."

A few long moments; crickets chirping. An untuned guitar somewhere, the flatlands around them amplifying sounds too far away. A small protest: "Alex said he had left yesterday morning."

"It's not that long of a drive —"

"It is if you have to take back roads, or if you need to get fuel. We don't know what they're working with," she snubbed. Or, rather, she coped, every word a lifeline thrown out to that precious friend and with a desperate wish to feel a tug on the other end.

The wind circled around them for a moment, dust and hay and little wildflower buds dusting them, crowning them. She reached over to pluck a strand out of Sterling's hair, sweeping it back over his forehead. His eyes never met hers, only the sun's, still; she felt her own grown glassy and with that familiar sour taste in the back of her throat.

That arm around the farmer wrapped tighter when her gaze finally went back to the horizon. They measured the unchanging afternoon by call signs, a nasally voice through the static.

This is KMOZ AM South Ferngill, bringing you the breaking news from Zuzu City and beyond. The time is 7:03 and the temperature is 72 degrees and balmy. Late sunset tonight, it seems, but cloud cover should give us a brief respite later in the night. Chance for rain:

Hm... Well, we always hope for a chance, don't we?

"I gotta say, the chickens are loving this weather," Sterling turned as if to head back to the farmhouse, still refusing to look at her as if to curse her into salt. A deep breath, a longer exhale — the farmer joined him, small hand sliding into his calloused one. Ocher dust kicked up around them with every step and that tether was the only thing keeping her upright.

"They are. And so are the kids," another sigh. "I wish we could really let them run around."

"Too much noise."

And now a tired nod. "I know... And I agree with you."

"I know you do." They had been doing this more, these concentric circles, and every word said seemed to leave two more behind, not only unspoken but misunderstood.

But — after a soft "Sterling," and his eyes finally beholding her so gently and so sad — she had no other choice but to let the words free from where they had been held violently within her ribcage: "Can you please take care of everyone tonight? I need to... keep watch."

"Will you be all right alone?" His thumb rubbed the inside of her wrist as if he could slow her heartbeat from a single pulse point.

"I won't be far. Just down by the little pond," she promised after pulling away and taking several long strides back towards the sun-dappled plain: "I'll bring the dog, even."

And she did. Sterling's dog — or, Henry's dog, first — was yet another addition to the overcrowded farmhouse. Thank god for her coops and sheds, otherwise they'd be stacked like little sardines. She so desperately wished she took Robin up on the project before she... left.

Disappeared.

Got flashed.

Whatever they want to call it.

Hours pass. (And at some point, the author will have something interesting to write here about those passing hours, but at this point she would like to get to the more exciting part where there's some drama.)

The sun had started to kiss the bottom edge of the sky and the clouds cast low, long shadows, running down the farm like paint drips. But behind all this sunset glory, in the distance, the farmer saw a flash of light.

Two flashes. Headlights.

"Alex," she breathed out and started running towards the little spot that she prayed was a beat up blue pickup. Pounding, pounding, her heart and her feet against the untilled earth — rushing, rushing, her blood and the wind frizzing every strand of her hay-tangled hair — streaming, streaming, the strips of sunlight and desperate tears

And screaming from the truck in the distance first strikes fear in her heart before she recognizes the voice. A raucous cheer: striking peace in her heart, somehow, the calmest she's ever been as this big blue truck screeches to a halt in front of her. Her blood, so much blood in her body —

It runs cold.

Alex is wrapping his strong, warm arms around her and god, Tucker too. Sam piles out of the car... another and another and another warm body. How many people did Alex save? How many people did he bring?

Is one of those people — why did it have to be him?

And why does his voice (throatier than she remembered and she remembered it so clearly) have to be the only one to reach through the fog of her head and pull her out: "I thought you were dead."

"Sebastian," is the only thing she can return with. Alex seems to realize the moment, his arms now tightening around her with that protective instinct. Sam, she recognizes, and Tucker of course, too. A happy gasp when she realizes the doctor was with them and then another shock, a happier one:

"Maru. You're alive?"