The camp is temporary. We sleep in wobbly tents that we share with our families; we hunt and fish for food when the Immortal is short on food; and we boil water in pots before drinking it. It's more like how life was back home in Pennsylvania, if only the lush forests and meadows were replaced with cactus and sandy dirt. At least Arizona is tolerable in late fall.

The biggest difference I've noticed between the camp and our home in Pennsylvania, other than the lack of permanent structures and the land, is that here, we're Nomads. We are now the people my family used to warn me about. We are scientific Nomads who occasionally board an oversized tank two miles away to eat when there's enough for all of us now that there are a thousand refugees here. Despite the inconveniences of a temporary camp, I can't help but be thankful for the tents. They show that we're all equal here. No one sleeps in a better place than anyone else, except for Declan and the night guard, who only stay on the Immortal in case of attack.

It's early, before anyone is awake, before the sun has even risen. I rub my eyes and look around the tent. It reminds me of when all of us would sleep in the safe room back home, crammed in a 10 by 10 space with hardly anything. The only person missing is Ben, but Celia occupies his physical space. No one can replace him in any other way.

Daniel finally fell asleep after hours of tossing and turning in and out of nightmares. His fingers outstretch to touch mine, but I still can't sleep. I slip my hand away, roll out from under the fur Daniel and I share for a blanket, and tiptoe to the mirror Celia left on a wooden box-more like a crate-that we've been using for a table. In the dusty, warped reflection, I check to make sure I don't look too exhausted. By the time we arrived at the camp last night, everyone had already fallen asleep. I couldn't have had more than 3 hours of sleep, though somehow my eyes don't look too puffy.

But my hair... The "unique" color that was always my dad's first. After all I've seen, I can't see orange. I can't see flowers. I can only think of the nickname Nate tried to give me, the fabric that hid Daniel in the President's quarters at the bunker, the room Daniel and I shared in the estate, fire, and blood.

Red.

The color fills me like smoke, rising from my gut into my mind. For a moment, I think I might vomit again if only to get the red out from inside me. I want it away, out of my life. I never want to see it again.

I look back at my dad, his wild hair poking out from beneath the fur. I'll never escape it completely, but... I can control some things in my life still, can't I?

An idea forms in my brain. I sneak out of the tent, and toward where we keep the pods. The soldier guarding them is half asleep, but I recognize her. "Meg?"

She yawns and straightens up when she gets a good look at me. "Isla. Look at you. I ought to touch up your hair, the shaved side is looking a little scraggly. Just promise you won't do it yourself."

I smile. "I promise. Hey, listen, I need to borrow a pod. I'm going to find a town nearby and get some supplies."

She peers at me. "I'm not supposed to let anyone use these without official permission from President Kunkle."

"My mom is the Vice President. I can wake her up, and have her come over to talk to you."

She looks around me toward my family's tent. "No, it's fine. Besides, you'll be leading this place soon enough anyway."

She moves aside for me to pass, and I laugh. "Yeah, right. Thanks, Meg, I'll be back soon."

I open the door to one of the pods, when Meg continues, "You don't know do you?"

"Know what?" I ask.

"There's a group of people who want you to lead. It's made up of a lot of us from the estate. We trust you."

I'm still a little too groggy to fully understand what she's telling me, and she must notice, because she steps closer and says, "Back at the estate, I didn't believe in anything anymore. I was ready to die, and I thought there would be nothing you could do about it. But you got me medicine and you made it possible for us to escape. I'm healthy now. I'm a soldier. I can stand on my own." She places her hand on my shoulder. "Your sacrifices have not gone unnoticed."

I should feel flattered, honored, but the conversation only makes me feel uncomfortable. Here I am, trying to escape the camp, and Meg is trying to tell me I'll lead this place one day instead of my mom or Declan. I can't do that to either of them, so I just smile and say, "Thanks, but I really don't want to lead right now. I'll, um... I'll be back soon. Thanks again."

I hop into the pod, start it, and begin driving away. I'm not entirely sure where I'm going, but I figure if I stay on the main roads, eventually, they will lead to civilization. I focus on that and only that until, about 45 minutes into my pre-dawn journey, I find a shopping center within which is an old grocery store.

I step out of the pod and walk through the hollowed doorway of the store. What's left of the inventory blurs around me. I can only focus on Aisle 2, and then, there they are: the last couple jars of jam, one blueberry, one blackberry. Still, they'll do the job I need them to do.

A hour and one detour later, I return to camp with my jam. I try to hide the jars from Meg, but my pockets are still full of words from yesterday, so I carry the jars in my arms.

"Jam?" Meg asks. "That was the supply? I think there's some on the Immortal."

"Oh really? Oh well, thanks for letting me take the pod out," I say hurriedly. I consider asking her for help with my plan, since she helped me with a similar task before; but I want to ignore the fact that anyone might want me to lead. I'm not myself right now, and no one deserves to be led by someone who is broken.

I slip back into our tent, and find everyone still asleep. Based on the sun's position in the sky, it's probably only 5:00am, but I want to do this before anyone is awake to question me. I lift the base of the wooden crate and empty my pockets beneath it. The sentence fragments and words, and my carved mockingbird. Where's Daniel's slingshot? I wonder, but then I see it beside him on the ground. It reminds me of when he was a little boy, and he and his slingshot were inseparable. I wish I could go back in time and warn that little boy of all of this, but alas... with all our scientific experiments and discoveries, time travel is still impossible.

I tiptoe to Celia, and shake her gently. "Celia," I whisper. "Celia, wake up."

She awakes with a deep breath, as if I've startled her, then upon seeing me, rubs her eyes. "Good morning, Isla."

"I need your help."

"Are you okay?" she asks, sitting up.

"Shh." I help her to stand and whisper, "Everything is fine. I just need your artistic abilities."

She's still squinting her eyes as they adjust to the dim light from outside the tent. "Now? What's the jelly for?"

"You're going to help me dye my hair."

Two hours later, as the sun is rising and the camp is officially waking, Celia leads me to the lake, her small hands purple from the jam. My eyes are mostly covered by the wraps around my hair to keep the jam in place, so Celia guides me until I feel water on my legs.

"Okay, now dip your head down," Celia instructs me, so I do, letting dyed wraps fall into the water before immersing my hair. "We have to do this kind of quickly," she adds, and then gently removes the headband from where it's been resting on my neck, tucking it beneath my arm.

Celia massages the water through my hair, and I watch chunks of blueberry and blackberry drift away from me on waves of bluish purple swirls. Once her fingers stop sticking to my hair, she tells me to lift my head. She squeezes away the excess water, and when she's finished, I throw my head back. Damp hair clings to my neck, and I pull at it to check its color. It's dark, but I can't tell yet if it will still be red. The jam's success was a long shot, especially after 25 and a half years sitting on a shelf.

Celia smiles. "It's different."

"Not red anymore different?"

She inspects a handful in the light. "Shouldn't be. My hands are purple, so your hair should be too, right? You're the scientist."

"Yeah, but you're the artist."

I've forgotten about my headband still pressed beneath my arm, and for a second, I feel someone in my mind. They don't say anything, and I hurry to return the headband to its place, but a thought sticks with me. "Check on Winston," the thought repeats.

It's Phoebe, it has to be. She's still trapped in the computer network, her consciousness forever evicted from its home, destined to travel between ports until she wakes up. I make a mental note to stop by the infirmary of the Immortal to check on her and Joe later. I've heard Winston hasn't left Phoebe's side, which means I'll need to bring him food. I'm pretty sure he hasn't been eating.

"Isla?" someone calls from the shore. I turn back. It's Jane, though I barely recognize her. Her posture is strong and assertive. There's not even a trace of the mousy, scared Caregiver who helped me out of the cell. There's a group of refugees around her: some other former Caregivers I recognize, some of the Originals from the dam, and even a couple of kids. I hadn't noticed kids at the dam before, but now I have time to notice everything.

I wave, and Celia and I walk to shore. "Good morning," I say. I pull Jane in for a hug. "How are you doing?" I ask.

She smiles brightly. "So much better." She turns to the group around her. "Everyone, this is the Isla Blume."

They stretch out their hands to shake mine, even the kids. A boy and a girl, smiling at me like I might have gifts for them. "Hi," I say, scanning the small crowd. "Nice to meet you all."

The little girl hands me a square of burlap, and I thank her, running my thumb over the fabric. I feel a stiffness in the already coarse fabric, so I turn it over and read a slogan written in purple dye, matching the color I hope my hair will be once it's dry. The slogan reads, "Bloom w/ Blume."

My chest tightens at the sight of my name. "What is this?"

Jane's enthusiasm escapes her, and I get a hint of the girl in the drain, scared and unsure of how to continue. "It's sort of like a campaign slogan. All of us from Cooper's estate know you and trust you. We... want you in leadership."

They're all watching me, and the attention fills me with claustrophobia, like Jane and the others are slowly moving in on me. "I'm already in leadership," I say. "I'm the Biology sector head."

"We want you as President," Jane says, and I scan the small crowd. No one smiles, no one laughs. This isn't a prank, and I suddenly feel like there's no escape either. "Vice President Blume didn't tell you? She's your mom, right?"

I glance down at the kids' faces, waiting with expectant eyes for my reaction. I need to breathe. "Jane, can I talk to you for a moment over here?" I ask, pointing down the shore.

"Okay," she agrees, and Celia distracts the group with conversation. Once Jane and I are isolated, she says, "I hope I didn't catch you too off guard."

"Meg told me about it a little this morning, but the thing is... I shouldn't lead people again. I... I did something after you all left. Something I'm not proud of."

She looks at me in confusion and says, "Whatever it is doesn't change what you did for all of us at the estate. Especially me."

I want to tell her about what happened. The sentence is ready in my brain-I almost helped Gunther kill people-but I can't force it out. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

Jane glances back at the group Celia is still entertaining, then back at me. "Look, whatever it is, I'm not giving up on you, Isla. Neither are those people. You deserve to be our leader."

She smiles and bows her head. Muscle memory from her days as a Caregiver. Before I can think of an argument, she turns around to rejoin her group as they head off to the Immortal for breakfast.

I feel like I'm stuck down the shoreline. I never wanted to be a leader in the first place, but I embraced it when I felt like I could save people. Now, I'm not even sure if I'm well enough to put myself back together. I'm not even well enough to put together a sentence, let alone the Deathless.

Celia comes toward me, too distracted by my hair to notice the panic I'm in. She holds the drying ends of my hair between her fingers. "Don't kill me," she says, "but I think it's drying pink."

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