Something hits me from the side.

  The world flips. My spine hits the ground hard enough to knock the breath clean out of me, and then the weight pins me. Barely missing the edge of the cliff.

  I look up and see a mouth opening over me.

  Jaws. Teeth that neatly line the mouth.

  It goes straight for my neck.

  I swing my arm with everything I have. My fist connects with bone and fur, and the bite snaps shut a hair off target.

  I remember. Nose, eyes, anything that makes it flinch.

  I jam my hand forward, punch hard, and hook a finger against its nose. Its slick and warm, and the panther jerks back. It buys me a sliver of time.

  I twist and roll out from under it, scrambling like an animal myself. My hands slip against the moist rock. My knee hits a rock. I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything except the beat of my heart.

  I get my feet under me and run.

  I don’t even get a few steps in when I hear the scratching of claws on stones, and I struggle not to look back.

  Outrunning it won’t be possible. I make the only choice I have. I lunge off the cliff.

  For a heartbeat theres nothing below my feet.

  Then the wind rips the scream from me. The world tilts, skies, trees, stone, all spinning as I fall.The roar of the water rises to meet me.

  The impact hits like a hammer.

  Cold shock drives needles through my skin. Water rushes into my nose and mouth. My body forgets how to operate as it floats there, trying to recover.

  Panic and adrenaline finally seizes control back, and I claw blindly through the water. Then by pure stupid luck I break the surface. I suck in a breath thats mixed with water.

  My hands meet mud. When I cough, a lungful of water greets the ground I’m lying against.

  I roll onto my side and immediately regret having a side. Everything hurts. My shoulder burns like I jammed it with a fork, and my thigh feels wet in a way that doesn’t paint a pretty sign. I press my palm to it and it comes away slick.

  Awesome.

  At least I’m not dead.

  For now.

  I survived a waterfall.

  I would like to formally thank gravity for missing on the final blow.

  I drag myself upright by grabbing a root.

  The river runs loud and cold, pouring out of the gorge like it’s late for something. Mist clings to everything, including my hair, clothes, eyelashes. I need to move before I freeze. I blink hard and stare into the trees.

  Where I remember the village lies.

  I’ve been watching it for a week now, a smudge of smoke and thatch and movement tucked into the green like someone tried to hide it in the valley. I contemplated what to do and told myself I would circle wide. That I would simply observe. I told myself I shouldn’t walk into a place where I don’t know the rules, most definitely not the language, or whether they hang strangers for sport.

  Then a giant panther tried to turn me into Swiss cheese and made the decision easy.

  I take a step and almost buckle.

  I breathe through my teeth, steady myself with a tree, and take another careful step. Although the bleeding isn’t all that bad, if I stay here I’ll likely freeze and might even get an infection. Maybe the panther will decide to hunt me down. If I go to the village, I might get stabbed. Not ideal choices, but I’ve lived long enough to accept that life does not deal cards in ideals. Life makes you choose a disaster and play along.

  I limp along the river, following it down where it bends toward the village. The ground is soft, springy with moss and last season’s leaves. It would’ve felt peaceful if this were a simple hike.

  It isn’t.

  The air smells different here. Not like dust and hot metal from home. Not like the burnt-out streets, oil fires, and gun smoke that cling to a world that forgot what laws look like. Here it smells like wet soil and something sweet I can’t name.

  My parents used to talk about before The Blackout.

  Not in a poetic way. In a nostalgic way.

  My father would stare up at the night sky and say, “The sky used to be full of stars.”

  Why am I thinking about stars right now?

  I almost stumble as I trip on a hidden root.

  My world had just a few stars, like rationing sugar into bread. A stingy handful that hung there like diamonds. The old people swore it was not always like that.

  Then I woke up here, in this place.

  The first night here nearly broke me. The darkness was packed with light. Not a few stars. Not a polite scatter.

  A flood.

  It was like someone had spilled milk over a table.

  I laughed in confusion. Out loud. Alone. Like I had finally lost it from the stress of avoiding T’s gang.

  And then, when the realization hit me later, I cried. It was rare for me, where warlords tax your breath and the last nations clutch their patches of land and order like bandages over rotting carcasses.

  I blink at the memory and nearly tip over a rock. I slap a hand against the ground to catch myself.

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  Focus, James. Focus on the village.

  Smoke curls up from somewhere beyond the trees. The roar of the water has faded and other sounds step in. Birds. Insects. Something that I think might be distant voices.

  I am a mess. My shirt is torn along the side. My pants are shredded at the thigh where the panther raked me, or where I hit a log in the pool. Blood has dried in stiff patches, and fresh blood keeps leaking.

  I need help. I need bandages, clean water, something sharp to cut fabric, something to stop the bleeding.

  I need a miracle in the form of a roof and a red cross.

  I stagger forward again, following a narrow path I finally stumble onto an area where plants have been trampled often enough that they surrendered. The light changes as I step into open grass.

  And there it is, close enough that I can see people moving.

  The village is small. Huts made of wood and woven reeds cluster together like they’re huddling. Smoke rises from a central fire pit. A few skinny dogs loiter at the edges, watching me with wary curiosity. They’re a breed I’ve never seen before.

  The fields around the village are the strangest part.

  They are not neat rows. No straight lines. It looks like someone scattered seeds and let the world argue over what lived. Stalks stand in ragged patches, some knee-high, some taller than a man, bending under the weight of heavy seeds. Broad-leafed plants crowd like weeds, and vines crawl wherever they find space.

  A place that likely didn’t have a hospital. Not ideal but it could still work.

  There at the edge of the field stands a fence.

  Or the start of one.

  Stakes have been driven into the ground in a loose curve, some sharpened and some still splintery. It isn’t tall yet, and it seems unfinished as it points outward.

  A budding wall to ward off intruders.

  A woman carrying a woven basket sees me first.

  She freezes.

  Her eyes widen and her mouth opens. She says something sharp and fast, and it isn’t any language I know.

  Her shout snaps the village into motion. Heads turn, people stand. Someone grabs a child and yanks them behind a hut. A man lifts a spear from where it leans against a wall.

  More voices rise. Words spill out, harsh and quick.

  I raise both hands slowly, palms open, fingers spread.

  Universal sign of please do not kill me, with a visual side of I’m obviously too tired to fight anyway.

  “Hey,” I say, because what else am I supposed to do? Gawk?

  “I’m not here to cause trouble. I need help.” I say, while slowly pointing at my bleeding thigh.

  No one responds like they understand. Of course they don’t.

  I take another slow step forward and my leg gives again.

  I catch myself, but the movement makes me look like I’m lunging.

  The spears come up.

  Not so great.

  “I’m hurt,” I try again. “Any help would be appreciated.”

  Blank stares.

  A man with a gray feather braided into his hair steps forward. He is lean, sun-browned, wearing something like a tunic made of rough cloth. He holds a spear with the casual confidence of someone who has used it.

  I’ll call him the feathered man.

  He says something, voice deep.

  Not knowing what else to do, I try my luck. I point at my chest.

  “James.”

  He repeats it, but his mouth shapes it differently. The villagers murmur, passing it along like a rumor.

  He says another phrase, shorter, and a young man steps up with a bowl in his hands.

  Water. A sign of goodwill. So far, so good.

  I reach for the bowl.

  The moment my fingers touch the rim, the light changes.

  Sunlight dims, shadows sharpen. The air cools in a heartbeat.

  A hush spreads through the village faster than fear.

  Someone gasps.

  I look up.

  The sun is being eaten.

  A black edge bites into it, clean and impossible. The sky takes on a bruised twilight tone even though it was full day a second ago.

  And then, when the sun thins into a crescent, stars appear.

  Hundreds of thousands of stars, taking my breath away again.

  I look back down. The villagers don’t share the same awe I do.

  No. They look terrified.

  The young man with the bowl recoils as if my fingers are poison. Water sloshes over the edge. His eyes go wide, and he shouts something that makes two others cry out in response.

  The feathered man rushes over and thrusts his spear toward me, tip shaking.

  I stumble back.

  People begin to cry over each other, but one word seems to be used most often. Unfortunately I can’t understand what it means, not like it would do me any good at this point. They are probably accusing me of the eclipse.

  “Wait,” I cry out, voice cracking. “I obviously didn’t do this.”

  I repeat it, not knowing what else to do.

  They do not seem to care. The darkness deepens. The temperature drops again. Everything but the people has gone silent.

  My skin prickles as I watch the villagers get riled up. I’ve seen a similar sight from living under lawless zones.

  Mob.

  Panic.

  I lift my hands higher. The man with the gray feather stands there ominously with the spear pointed at me, too scared to lunge, but certainly not letting me pass. He says something. I don’t understand the words, but the intent is clear.

  Leave.

  I hesitate. What if I get an infection if I don’t get treated? I know they don’t have anything modern, but I’m sure they can treat me better than I can in the wild. And what if the panther comes back? I survived it by a fluke; it won’t happen again.

  A stone whistles past my ear and thuds into the grass behind me. Another hits my shoulder, not hard enough to break anything, but certainly enough to bruise. Someone yells in the crowd and the feathered man jabs again, giving me an ultimatum.

  I stumble backward.

  Daylight creeps back into the world and the villagers do not soften.

  I limp, then hobble, then half run toward the trees, before they change their minds—or before whatever weird custom ties me to the eclipse turns into permission to kill me.

  The shouting fades only when the undergrowth thickens. I stagger into the damp green, lungs burning, with fresh blood flowing down my thigh from the run.

  Then there’s only the river again.

  I don’t let myself stop. Fear keeps my legs moving. Fear the villagers will change their minds, that they’ll come crashing through the trees with spears and stones. I follow the river’s edge, jogging where the ground allows it and limping where it doesn’t.

  Time starts to warp. My wet clothes cling like cold hands. The shivering comes in waves, and I hate that part of me knows exactly what it means.

  I should stop. Strip the soaked fabric off. Wring it out. Let the sun do its job.

  I don’t.

  Not until the fear finally dulls into something heavier and slower.

  When my legs start to wobble, I force myself to look for open ground. A field. A break in the canopy. Somewhere the sun can reach me. I spot a lighter patch through the trees and angle toward it.

  I push through the brush-

  Thunk.

  Something sharp punches into the trunk behind me. The sound is too clean, too deliberate.

  A beat later, warmth slides down my cheek.

  Not warmth.

  Wet.

  I lift a hand to my face and my fingers come away red.