Under Different Stars by Amy A. Bartol Page A

causes me to sway a little. Trey’s arms go around me, steadying me.
    “Jax, get the visor,” Trey orders, “we need to check her vitals—something’s not right.”
    “I’m fine.” I push away from Trey but he doesn’t let me go completely; his hand remains on my elbow. “Just had a head rush…stood up too fast. Stop hovering,” I scold him.
    “I’m not hovering,” Trey retorts with a frown. “I don’t hover!”
    “You’re hovering. He’s hovering, isn’t he, Wayra?” I ask, seeing Wayra watching us.
    “You are hovering, sir,” Wayra replies with a smirk.
    “I don’t hover,” Trey growls, scowling at Wayra, who holds up both his hands.
    “I need some privacy,” I say softly, looking at his hand on my arm. He immediately lets go of me, turning away.
    Taking the package, I go further away from them, around the other side of the enormous tree. I scan the contents of the satchel; it’s full of toiletries. It has wipes that are like wet naps and a sponge, that when I unwrap it and squeeze it, contains a soapy solution for washing my body.
    Quickly, I take care of my pressing needs. Then, I use the sponge, cleaning myself as quickly as I can. After I put everything but the comb back into the bag, my stomach growls loudly. Knowing I have to keep my strength up, I move back around the wooden deck of the tree, finding Trey, Wayra, and Jax sitting with their backs to the trunk speaking quietly to each other.
    “I’m not quite sure what to do with this,” I say to Jax, holding up the bag he had given me.
    “I’ll take it,” he says. Thanking him, I hand it back along with the headlamp. They have a long stick-like lamp that’s glowing dimly near the turn of the tree. Its light isn’t yellow, but ice blue and it doesn’t seem to be attracting any bugs. I sit near them and let my legs hang over the edge of the deck, while holding one of the woven rope spindles of the railing.
    I can’t help marveling at the night sky, the immensity of it. No lights mar its perfection. Goose bumps, rising on my arms, make me realize that the lack of light means there aren’t any cities around…no civilization that I’m accustomed to for survival. Feeling myself panicking, I begin combing out my hair, trying to calm myself. I have to stay with them until I can find some sort of civilization. I don’t know how to survive here .
    The conversation behind me slowly dies. Glancing over my shoulder, I pause, seeing them all watching me. I narrow my eyes at them, and Jax straightens, saying, “Are you hungry, Kricket?” Nodding slowly, I see him get up. Rummaging through his pack, he produces something packaged in a clear wrap. He hands it to me. “I think this one is pheasant.”
    “Mmm pheasant,” I say sarcastically, and see him grin.
    “It’s like…hen,” he says, “with bread…uh, dough?”
    Opening the package, I extract a small pie from it. “Does it taste like cat poop?” I ask, sniffing it suspiciously.
    “Just try it,” he says before returning to his seat. I take a tentative bite and find it tastes like a chicken-pot-pie. My stomach growls again as I take a larger bite, chewing it hungrily.
    “I think the pheasant is the best one…better than the quiche,” Wayra says. “I once traded four quiche packs for one pheasant. That was the day I got this,” Wayra holds up his arm and shows us a long, thick scar. “Sactum amp tossed by an Alameeda who snuck into the compound at chow time.”
    “You’re supposed to get out of the way when someone throws an amp at you,” Trey says with a sarcastic grin.
    “Oh really?” Wayra fires back.
    “Why didn’t you get it wrapped?” Jax asks, looking at the scar.
    “Because it looks tough. The blushers love scars. I’m not going to get it removed either…it’s a badge of honor,” he says, flexing his arm and showing off his powerful muscles.
    Jax rolls his eyes. “You think that’s tough, check this out,” he says, lifting his shirt and showing