Even though clouds veil parts of the sky, I blink against the light, blinded after all the days we’ve spent in darkness. The new leaves on the tree branches above us tell me it is spring, and my sixteenth birthday has come and gone with the winter snows. The cold air feels thin; the cleanness of it prickles my skin and dries my lungs. I breathe deep and try to smile. The unpracticed gesture splits a new crack in my lips. I look at Kito. Dirty black hair hangs limp over a gaunt face. His body is pale skin stretched too thin over every sharp angle and deep crevice of the skeleton beneath. His eyes look as dead as I imagine mine do, and yet he is just as handsome to me as he has always been, because he is alive. We are alive. I want to kiss him, but I don’t. My mouth still tastes too much of blood and salt and fear. I notice that there are only twenty or so other captives wandering out of our prison. My throat knots; there were close to two hundred of us when the rebellion started.
