A few hours after the helicopter crash, every tractor in the town went to work in no-man's-land, their wheels pushing apart the ash that had once been wildlife and cutting trenches into the dead soil. In minutes, the sandbag forts, which had been deemed inadequate, came down to be replaced by underground shelters that would be safe from sharpshooters.
In his home, Morgan watched it all, piped through his projector in Bonde Wakulima's first ever live news cast.
Every few minutes, he squinted at the thermometer attached to the oven, which told him that the air inside was hovering at ninety-seven degrees Celsius. He turned up the power, trying to get it to plateau at a hundred and twenty. He checked the timer, saw a little more than four minutes left, and looked back to the screen.
"Morgan?" said his mother, stepping into the room. "What's this?"
"They're putting a trench around town," said Morgan, gesturing to the wall. "It looks like it's going up fast. They're already half done."
"Good lord almighty," said his mother, quoting her Lutheran grandmother. She shook her head. "What are you making?"
"Cookies. I'm taking them to militia practice today."
"Morgan, your father and I talked about this. You can't stay in the militia. You might get hurt."
"But it's only practice," he said. "Besides, it's the only chance I get to be with my friends anymore."
"Fine, but if they call you out to fight, even if they say it's just once, you can't go with them."
"I know, Mom. Believe me, I'm happy to have an excuse not to fight. But with them, I feel free. No one has to watch me like I'm a child. Do you know how important that is to me?"
Her face sagged. "Oh, Morgan, I didn't want this for you."
"I don't want it either," he said, pulling a sheet of sugar cookies from the hot oven. "But as long as things are bad like this, I might as well make the most of it." On that, he piled the cookies onto a plate, stacked a second plate upside-down on top of it.
"Be safe," said his mother.
Morgan privately wished that he had a little brother for her to worry about. Then a knock from the entryway blew away his thoughts, and he eagerly pulled open the front door. Otta stood on the porch, straight and confident. The assault rifle slung on her back did nothing to diminish her sweetness.
"Hello, Morgan," she said warmly. "You look like you've been waiting."
"Not long," said Morgan, snatching up the cookies. "Are you ready?"
"Let's go."
"Can we run?" asked Morgan, once he was out the door.
Otta grinned widely and said, "I'll race you there."
All the way to practice, they ran. Once again, Morgan felt the air on his face, and he could feel his worries fluttering away in the wind behind him.
When Morgan and Otta arrived, the training grounds were alive. Mapula and Zanele were having a discreet one-on-one game of basketball in a corner while Maya and Sami leaned on a wall, listening to Nakasi. But Nakasi wasn't talking to them. She was talking to a woman Morgan had never seen before, a thin, rugged one dressed in camouflage. Her blue eyes stared calmly out from her pinched face.
Just before Morgan could greet her, another newcomer caught his eye, and to his delight, it was another boy, only a few years older than he was. The boy stood on the sidelines, clutching a gun that looked cobbled together, with a bent sight and a ferocious-looking knife fixed to the front. His furrowed brow and thin frown told Morgan to keep his distance, but Morgan did not listen.
