“Bryce,” Sinna said. “What do we do?”
He chuckled without humor. “Mule’s dead. At least for the moment. We have no food, no water, not enough weapons, and too many converts standing between us and Montana. Guess that means you get your wish, little bit. We’re going south.”
The news didn’t thrill her. “Maybe they’ll be different.” Her tone belied her words. “Maybe they’ll help us.”
“Yeah. And maybe we’ll wake up tomorrow and the sky will rain down chocolate chip cookies.”
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