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eye.
    “Benito!” she yells.
    A shape blurs past her. It’s Adán. With a roar, he plunges his skinning knife into
     the Invierno’s chest. Mara senses the other children coming up behind her, even as
     Adán wrenches his blade from the Invierno’s bloody chest and raises it to strike again.
    “No!” Mara darts forward, grabs Adán’s arm. “Stop!”
    Adán lashes out blindly with his other hand. His knuckles crack against her cheek,
     and she tumbles backward, landing hard on her rear.
    Red spots dance in her vision as her eye socket blossoms with pain.
    “Oh, God. Mara, I’m so sorry. I . . . oh, God.” Adán throws his knife away from himself
     and stares at his hands as though they belong to a stranger. Spatters of blood cover
     his shirt.
    Mara gets shakily to her feet. “Adán and Benito,” she says, her voice like thunder.
     “You are responsible for this, therefore you will dispose of this body.”
    “He surprised me!” Benito says. “We stumbled onto each other, and all of a sudden,
     he was on top of me, and I—”
    She holds up a silencing hand. “If more scouts discover him, they will know we passed
     this way. So you will bury him thoroughly and clean up any blood. The rest of us will
     set up camp and wait for you.”
    Soft crying trickles up to her ears, and Mara looks down to see Marlín at her elbow,
     the girl’s horrified gaze fixed on the bloody corpse of the Invierno. Mara bends over
     and picks her up. “I need you to be brave for me, Marlín,” she says.
    Marlín sniffs. “You say that a lot.”
    “Only because it’s the truest thing I know right now.”
    “No fire tonight,” Reynaldo says. “There could be more scouts nearby.”
    “Did he track us, do you think?” Mara asks. They haven’t even bothered to disguise
     their trail.
    “I doubt it,” Reynaldo says. “But after we break camp tomorrow, we should get rid
     of any footprints, cover the site with brush. Try to make it look like we were never
     here.”
    “Good thinking.” To Benito and Adán, she says, “No shallow grave. We don’t want coyotes
     digging him up.”
    “You’re punishing us,” Benito says. “Even though he is the enemy!”
    Mara stares him down. “You and Adán were not wrong to kill. This is war, after all.
     But you were wrong to lose control. Join us in camp only when you’re certain you have
     it back again.”
    Mara has survived this long only by remaining in control. If she is going to keep
     these children alive, they will have to learn it too.

15

    T HEY haven’t eaten in two days. They have all thinned noticeably, no one more so than
     Julio. His cheeks are gaunt, and his eyes are dark, sunken shadows in his otherwise
     pallid face. At least once per hour, someone complains about hunger.
    Mara begins to practice with her bow in the evenings and early mornings. Several of
     the others have slings, and she makes them train together. She tells them they all
     need to practice so they can hunt as they go. But really, she needs something to distract
     them from their aching, empty bellies.
    And she knows that if they encounter another Invierno scout, she’ll need more skill
     with the bow to protect them. She practices a quick draw and notch, over and over.
     Next, she’ll teach herself to hit a moving target.
    “Where did you get that bow?” Reynaldo asks her one morning. They have stepped away
     from the campsite while the others linger over hot tea. Mara used some of the precious
     herbs from her satchel to make it. Anything to fool their stomachs for a little while.
    “Pá got it for me as a Deliverance Day gift,” she says, as she sights a withered pinecone
     that she placed atop a boulder.
    “It must have been expensive,” he says wonderingly. “It’s beautiful wood. Someone
     would have had to go high into the Sierra Sangre for that quality of pine.”
    She lets her arrow fly. It misses the target by a handspan at least, and she frowns.
     “Arrows don’t come