Chapter 8
A New Shoot
In the shadow of the stacked containers, a small, thin child sat with his back against bare sheet metal, knees drawn to his chest, head hanging. Pale, lightly curled hair lifted in the wind. He wore a gray tunic two or three sizes too big—cuffs drooping past his knuckles—and old cloth shoes with dried mud on the uppers. Nothing beside him: no flask, no ration pouch, no coat to block the wind.
Wind slipped through gaps in the containers. The child's shoulders kept hitching.
Eren stopped. He did not move closer.
He stayed where he was, looked the child over for a while, then started scanning the surroundings. Rust holes in the containers to his left, the shadow of a junked iron frame to his right, broken rocks a dozen meters ahead on the path…
No sound. No breath on the air. Nothing that said ambush.
But he had seen this play before.
Years back, on the far side of the barrens, a woman was crying on the road like her heart had split open. He was younger then—he had walked closer. Four men rose out of the grass together. He got away by luck. The scar on his left ribs was still there. After that, when he saw old folk or children on the road, he kept more distance.
He stayed put and called over:
"Boy—what are you doing here? Lost?"
The child lifted his head without answering, only looked at Eren. Pale blue eyes, empty—a blank that felt too real to be put on.
When the kid still would not speak, Eren had no wish to pick up extra trouble. He dropped his gaze, closed his hand on the hammer haft, thumb working the old leather wrap—never quite drawing it, never quite gripping hard. He angled past the child. The hammer's gear teeth caught his clothes and dragged a few soft scrapes along the cloth.
He walked to the end of the narrow lane, shook his head, sighed, turned back, and returned to the child.
Eren sat down beside him, pulled a flask from his belt pouch, unscrewed the cap, and held it out. "Want some water?"
The child's lips were cracked; his face was white. The hand that took the flask trembled faintly—cold and hunger showing through the skin. That could not be faked.
He tipped his head back and drank a few mouthfuls, then handed the flask back.
"Where'd you come from?"
The child thought a moment and shook his head.
"Your family?"
Another thought. Another shake of the head—unease creeping into his eyes now, as if he had just realized that not knowing the answer was itself a problem.
"What's your name?"
The child's voice was hoarse. "Nova."
Eren stayed seated, in no hurry to stand. The child's gaze never left his face—did not flicker anywhere else.
He broke off half a hardtack cake from his pack and held it out.
The child took it, looked at the food, looked at Eren, then put it in his mouth and bit. He chewed slowly.
Eren's eyes lingered on the child's thin clothes. Wind came again. He unclipped the gray cloth cloak from his shoulders, moved behind Nova, and draped it over him—hood pulled low, front panels crossed at the chest.
Nova drew the cloak closer, fingers clenching the collar. The shaking eased.
The kid had nothing to do with him. By the look of him, his head was not right either—and the contact point was still a long stretch ahead. Dragging a burden did not pay.
But there was no other move.
"Can you stand?"
Nova tried. His legs buckled once; he steadied against the sheet-metal wall and got up.
"Come with me for now. I'll help you look for your people."
Nova nodded.
They cleared the container field and the view opened again.
The sun sat west. Wind drove sand thicker. Nova still wore the cloak, hood low, only a fringe of pale curls showing. Eren pulled his coat collar tight—without the cloak, grit went straight down his neck.
Nova walked beside him in small steps, unsteady on the gravel. He kept looking at things along the road—the half-stripped roof of a dead workshop, a line of power poles leaning into the barrens, wires still hanging in the air.
After a while Eren noticed Nova's steps shrinking. He said nothing—just stopped in the shadow of a ruined shed, crouched, drank from his waterskin, and passed it over. Nova drank a few pulls and gave it back. They kept walking.
He found excuses to pause like that four or five times—crouching to knock grit from his boot sole with his heel, brushing dust off the leather, or gnawing half a strip of dried meat beside a large stone. Nova probably never realized the man was waiting for him. He drank, rested his feet, and caught up.
A while later Nova spoke. "What's your name."
"Eren."
"Eren." Nova repeated it. "Why are you taking me with you?"
Eren walked several steps before he answered. "Told you—help you find your people."
Nova hmmed and dropped his head to the gravel, setting one foot after another.
The sun had sunk toward the western horizon when they reached the contact point.
It was an old warehouse ringed with scrap-iron fencing—adobe walls still standing in most places, sharpened iron rods bristling from the parapet. The gate was shut. A man stood by it leaning on a steel rod, eyes hard.
Eren told Nova to wait behind a low wall. The child pulled the cloak tight and shrank into the shadow, only a pair of pale blue eyes showing.
Eren went forward alone, drew the iron token from his inner pocket, and passed it through the fence. The man turned it over, looked at it, sized Eren up, then shouted inward. A moment later the gate swung open from inside. They waved him in.
Another man sat against the wall in the yard. When Eren entered, his hand drifted toward his belt and stayed there—nothing said. An old man came out of the inner room, took the cloth bundle, cut the wire seal to check the goods, and pushed the remaining payment along the edge of a wooden crate. He nodded—the deal was done.
Eren pocketed the Crystone coins without leaving.
"Need to ask something," he said. "Anyone nearby lose a child these last few days? Pale blue eyes, light curls—around twelve?"
The old man looked at Eren.
The gatekeeper turned his head from the fence and glanced outward. "What—picked one up on the road?"
"By the containers. Alone. No water, no food."
The man against the wall snorted. "Everyone's someone's problem out here these days. Can't save them all."
Eren looked at him and said nothing.
The old man retied the bundle, voice slow. "Haven't heard anything here. If someone really lost a kid, word usually gets to the villages and towns. You could wait—or try the town tomorrow."
The gatekeeper settled his weight back on the steel rod, face flat. "We don't keep outsiders, you know the rule—and we can't watch a child for you."
"Understood. Thanks."
Eren left the yard.
Nova was still behind the low wall, staring at a mutant lizard perched on a stone—fine crystal scales along its spine catching blue light in the sun. Footsteps approached; the lizard darted into the brush.
Eren crouched in front of him.
"No leads. Think again—where did you come from? Who's at home?"
Nova lowered his head and pinched his sleeve, crushing wrinkles into the overlong cuff. "I only remember it was very dark. Then there was light. White walls. Lots of broken things. I kept walking out. Walked for a long time."
Listening, Eren figured the child had probably taken a shock and lost his memory—he did not press further.
By his original plan he should already be on the return road, home before full dark. He knew how long today had taken; the child's condition was worse than he had expected—those stops had stretched the trip by more than two hours. Head back now and night would close in halfway across the barrens. Crossing open badland with a child in pitch black was a bad idea.
Eren rubbed the short stubble along his jaw and sighed.
"You'll stay with me tonight." He stood. "Tomorrow we go back to the village and ask around."
Nova stood too. "Will we find them?"
"Who knows."
Eren did not rush to find a bed—he walked the perimeter around the warehouse first. Behind the building, a stretch of adobe wall stood in better shape, facing north, blocking the coldest winds off the barrens. At the base the ground had hollowed into a shallow dip—open sight lines, no claw marks or droppings from mutant beasts, no standing water. He crouched there a while and listened. Nothing wrong.
Good enough.
He told Nova, "We sleep here tonight. Leave at first light."
Nova did not ask why. He followed.
They lit a small fire in the hollow—not large, but enough light for two people.
Eren took the waterskin and dry rations from his pack, propped the skin between two stones near the flames, and waited for the water to warm.
Nova crouched by the fire. Flame jumped in his eyes—intent, focused, as if he had never seen fire before. Maybe he never had.
When the water was hot, Eren crumbled hardtack into it and added a pinch of salt. Two bowls—he handed one to Nova.
The child took it, looked down, tested the heat against the back of his hand, and drank a mouthful. He stopped.
"It's sweet," he said.
"It's salty," Eren said. "Not sweet."
"Oh." Nova frowned. "Feels good when you finish it."
Nova kept drinking until the bowl was empty, turned it once between his hands, set it aside, straightened, and said to Eren with sober care: "Thank you, Eren."
Eren turned his gaze back to the fire. A long moment passed before he said, "Thank me when we find your people."
Wind off the barrens was fierce at night. The wall and the fire cut most of the cold. Eren pulled a hide blanket from the bottom of his pack, shook it out, and tossed one end to Nova. The child caught it, wrapped it over the cloak, and set his chin on his knees. Firelight stretched his shadow along the adobe—a small, thin strip.
"Sleep there," Eren said, pointing at the sheltered spot against the wall. "Don't wander."
Nova looked at the spot, moved over, pulled the blanket tight, and fell quiet.
Eren settled against the opposite wall, fingertip resting on the leather wrap at the hammer haft, and closed his eyes.
Not long after, Nova's voice came from across the fire—soft, testing: "Eren, are you asleep?"
"No."
"Why aren't you sleeping?"
"I've got the watch. You sleep."
Nova was silent a few seconds. "Then I'll keep watch for you. I'm not tired."
Eren did not answer.
In the dark, Nova's eyes brightened faintly—pale blue. The fire popped once; light shifted, then stilled.
Eren opened his eyes, looked once, and closed them again.
Wind circled the adobe wall with a low, steady hum.