*
I’M BACK IN MY normal hiding place behind the wall when Brax comes. It’s dark now—as dark as it gets here—and the night is unusually quiet but for the traces of bass booming from the clubs in the Black Lanes.
Brax can read my moods. He always has been able to, even when he was a puppy. He crawls towards me with his jaw closed, and sniffs my face and hair before lying beside me with his head in my lap. He wiggles there, until I lift my hand to pet him. The soft feel of his fur comforts me.
But only a little.
I’d never do what Straw Hair did. I can’t, I’ve got the twins to think about. But it’s out there. Even if it’s an option I refuse to take, I know it’s out there.
A tall figure emerges from the barn. It’s the Driver, and I can see that he’s clean again, even though his clothes are a mess. He doesn’t descend the bank. He stands just outside the closest paddock fence. I can see his white teeth in the dim light.
I stand, leaving Brax lying on his side. This time, he doesn’t bother getting up to defend me. I don’t even grab my usual rock to defend myself. My hands feel empty, loose, and open like this.
The Driver’s holding something, and for a split second, I kick myself for not grabbing a weapon. But soon I see what it is. Round. Palm sized.
A ball. He’s tossing and catching it in one hand.
My jaw falls open. Surely he doesn’t want to play catch.
The Driver tosses me the ball underhand, and I catch it easily. It’s light and rubber, a little squishy in my grip. I toss it back, and he catches it. Then he throws a little harder. I grin, swiping it out of the air above me, muscles remembering the game Bian and I grew up playing. When I return the throw, he has to shake the sting out of his hand.
We go on this way for a while, and in that time I think of nothing but our game. Chains and auctions and girls with yellow hair all fade away.
My muscles get sore after a while, but I don’t stop until he does. Winding his arm in a large circle, he comes to the stream, preparing again to hop over. As always, he sighs just after he clears it.
When he’s walking towards me, my stomach tightens. Things weren’t so bad when he was on the other side of the barrier, but now that he’s close again I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what he wants or why he’s here, but to show him I’m not afraid, I hold my ground. When he gets within ten paces, Brax jumps up and begins to growl.
I scoff. “Nice of you to wake up.”
I pet Brax’s back, soothing his raised fur back down. The Driver is regarding Brax warily.
He gives the wolf wide berth on his way to the wall, then slides back against it. I feel my eyes narrow—this is the place where I usually sit. He pats the ground beside him.
Tentatively, I approach, coaxing Brax to follow. Just because I’m pretty sure I won’t be knifed doesn’t mean I’m about to sit beside this boy unprotected. With my eyes ever on him, I sink to the ground. Brax insists on sitting between us. He faces the Driver, giving a warning snap each time the boy jostles.
The bass from the Black Lanes changes rhythms twice while I wonder what to make of my visitor. Absently, I trace patterns in the dirt with my fingers while he tosses the ball from hand to hand. After a while he seems to notice what I’ve done and taps the ground beside him, where I’ve scribbled a picture of a four-leafed weed. He looks at me expectantly.
“It’s what they call me here,” I say in a hushed voice so that I don’t wake the Watcher up. “Clover. Eck. It’s not my real name.”
I look at him from under my lashes, waiting until he turns away so he doesn’t see my face when I whisper, “My real name’s Aiyana.”
It’s been so long since I’ve said it, I scarcely recognize its feel on my tongue. The word sounds strange, like I’m speaking a foreign language. I almost wonder what else has drifted away, but the Driver boy is watching me again, so I don’t worry about that right now.
“Aiyana,” I repeat, then point to him. “What’s your name?”
He looks back blankly. Even if he did follow, he wouldn’t be able to tell me.
“Your name should be Kiran,” I tell him. “Because your eyes, they look like…” I pause. I don’t know why but I feel like I’ve said something stupid again. The Driver, Kiran, looks over at me when I stop talking, and nods as though he wants me to continue.
“Well, what do you want me to say, Kiran?” I ask him. The name fits. I’m pleased with myself for thinking of it.
He leans back against the wall again, not understanding a word I’m saying. So I talk. Because no one has listened for a long, long time.