Aviva

“What’s your name?” I ask in the old tongue as I lead the boy through one of the pastures, shoving chest-height strands of wheat to the side to give us a path.

He doesn’t speak for a while. I don’t press him for information, either. The fact that he’s following me is enough.

“Logan,” he says after a moment, his voice calm and cool like the breeze coming off the rolling hills in the distance.

“How old are you?”

“Twelve.”

“I thought so.” I look at him over my shoulder, smiling, but he doesn’t return the gesture. Dark circles line his eyes, and he’s incredibly thin, even for a...