Morgan stooped in the dirt, head low, his back aching from the work. Mosquito bites blistered his skin, itching and aching. He had once believed that all life was sacred, but those damnable insects had changed his mind. They could burn and die, every single one of them.
Morgan's back flexed, his bent spine surging with pain, as he thrust his shovel into his half-dug ditch on the outskirts of the camp. It would make a poor latrine, and they didn't need a latrine since they'd be moving soon anyway, but Morgan needed to do something with his hands. His whole body twitched for movement. He wanted to run and again and let speed set him free. Digging didn't satisfy him, but it was as close as he would get.
Aircraft engines moaned above him. An aircraft pushed its way through the black sky, its safety lights outlining a fat silhouette. As soon as Morgan realized what it was, he looked down in disgust. It wasn't an attack helicopter or a bomber, and it probably didn't even belong to the CSF. It was a cargo craft, carrying the latest few tons of copper the CSF had blasted free from Mari Maldashi's mine. When the others slept, he could sometimes hear the blasts echoing from the mine.
Morgan heard shuffling behind him. He turned and looked, hoping for something interesting, and saw Zanele standing up and grabbing up her gun. For the first time, Morgan noticed that the gun had Mapula's name painted onto the side.
"Everyone listen up!" Zanele boomed. "One of the guards just called in. She says there's a man coming in who claims to be a survivor. We're going to watch him closely. Just because he's man doesn't mean he couldn't be a spy. Got it?"
Morgan stuck his shovel in the ground and ambled over to the middle of the camp, curious to meet this man.
The other militiawomen were ready now too, hunched over their guns and with ammo ready on their belts, on their vests, or in their pockets. There was hope in their eyes, but also wariness, backed up by a thirst for blood-- for revenge.
Into the purple light of the camp's only lit lamp, an armored woman appeared who Morgan recognized as Adwoa. For a moment, he was confused, then he saw a man walking behind her, tall and well-built, with long black hair and a skin tone much like Morgan's. In fact...
Morgan stepped a little closer. That looked like his father. It looked like him a lot.
"Morgan?" The man looked around. "Morgan, are you here?"
That was Graham's voice. "Dad!" Morgan ran into the lamplight, nearly tripping over something.
It was really him. Graham opened his arms, and Morgan ran into them, throwing his arms all the way around the man. He squeezed with terrified force, afraid that something would take him away again. Then Morgan felt his father's arms around his own back, and he knew he was safe.
"Morgan," said his father, in that voice he had missed so much. "Morgan, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, but I couldn't find Susan."
"It's okay," Morgan cut off. "Dad, I just... I just... I'm so glad you're back." When Morgan felt safe again-- whole again-- his let his father go. "What happened in there?"
"Susie and I went down in the fight. I think we both survived. But we got separated before the shooting stopped."
Morgan gripped his wrists. "And? How did you get out?"
"We didn't. Not until much later. After the fight, they separated out the men. I had to live with a Mauve for a while."
The whole camp gasped. Graham did not elaborate, but his silence was as clear as any words could have been.
"Let's not think about that," said Graham, pulling out a projector. "There's something else, too. Good news. Come look at this."
Already, he had the interest of everyone in the camp. They gathered around him as he projected onto a smooth crate lid. As soon as the number pad appeared, he tapped in a number that Morgan did not recognize, and within seconds, he got a reply.
