A Girl Called Badger (Valley of the Sleeping Birds) by Stephen Colegrove

doesn’t have the same cause.”
    “So what should I do? Just wait for the end?”
    “Let me explain. I found out from Reed that a kind of old machine is implanted––put inside us––during the name-giving ceremony. For some reason your sickness and that machine are related. Now, on the north side of Station is a building from the old days–”
    “It’s empty. And anyways, off-limits,” said Badger.
    “True, but there are tunnels leading underground. Only a few of us know about it. Weeks ago Robb and I went down there to fix the hot water. I found this pistol and that old set of implants. If we’re looking for something from before the war the tunnels are a good place to start.”
    “Reed won’t let you.”
    “Not if I don’t tell him.”
    Badger rubbed her eyes. “Machines, tunnels, blah, blah––I need sleep.”
    “No problem. I’ll put together supplies and we’ll meet at daybreak near the ruins.”
    “Got it.”
    He tried to put his arm around her waist but she pushed him away.
    “No. Get some rest.”
    They left by different paths.
     
    WILSON WALKED TO THE tannery but his mother wasn’t there. He took a few pieces of buckskin from the wall. He set his pistol on the largest piece, wrapped it, and marked the outline with a knife. After cutting the leather and folding it to repel water he sewed the edges with a needle and leather thong. At the top he made a large flap and secured it with a leather strap around the middle. A rectangle of leather at the back would secure the holster to a belt. Wilson held it up and thought it looked nothing like the pictures.
    The door squealed and his mother stepped inside.
    “Oh, hi there, Cubbie. Come and give your mother a hug.”
    “Morning.”
    She held him tight. “Why haven’t you come to see me?”
    Wilson shrugged. “Been busy.”
    “I said I was sorry. I just thought ... you know ...”
    “Yes mother––I know, and you were right.”
    His mother saw the pistol on the table.
    “What’s that doing here?”
    “I made a pouch for it.”
    “Why are you fooling with that junk? It’s dangerous!”
    “Any weapon is dangerous if never cleaned, and that’s one thing never on the mind of some filthy, half-drunk savage. But this one didn’t come from the outside.”
    “Why is it here and not in Armory?”
    “I was just taking it there.”
    His mother watched his face. “Cubbie, what’s going on inside your head?”
    “I’m Reed’s apprentice, mother. I know how to handle these things.”
    She touched his arm and he pulled away.
    “You look just like your father,” she said. “And sound like him. He always said things like that. I can handle it, Mary. You don’t know what’s going on, Mary. You don’t understand this or that. He was right. I didn’t care about anything but him and my little baby.”
    “I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”
    “Don’t say that. The last thing he said to me was ‘I’m sorry’. I walked with everyone to the pass and––I’ll never forget––he said, ‘If anything happens to me, I’m sorry, Mary. If anything happens it’s my fault. Promise me you’ll be happy.’” She covered her face with her hands.
    “Let’s take a walk,” said Wilson. “Come on.”
    She wiped her eyes. “No, I’m fine. I know you’re on some secret project and it’s none of my business. Make the choices you have to make, Cubbie. Just be sure that’s what you want.”
     
    MAST WAS IN THE very back of the workshop casting tips for crossbow bolts. Robb sat on a narrow saddle near the wall, spinning pedals with his legs to work the ventilator. The smell of sulfur and carbon floated on the thick, heated air.
    “Give me a minute,” said Mast. He finished pouring red-hot metal into fingernail-sized molds. “Time for a break. Robb, get me something to drink.”
    “Where’s your shadow?” asked Wilson.
    “Hausen? His wife needed him for something. Told me to keep working.”
    “Not your ‘boss’ boss.