Chapter Twenty?Two — Hunger at the Edges

  By mid?morning, the wagon train creaked back into motion, hooves thudding over hard earth, wheels complaining with every turn. The patched wheel clicked faintly — a reminder that their pace was controlled not by hope, but by fragility.

  Finch rode near the front, posture iron-straight. But even from a distance, Miles could see the weight hanging on the captain’s shoulders. Every mile ahead was a gamble. Every mile behind held shadows that still stalked them.

  And hunger walked with them too.

  The sun rose high. Heat shimmered off the sagebrush. The breeze carried dust instead of cool relief.

  By noon, water barrels sloshed low, and the smell of damp wood where fresh water should've been turned sour.

  Esther’s son whimpered quietly, fingers tight around the armless rag doll. Esther hushed him, offering a dry piece of cornbread from the dwindling stores. When she glanced up at Miles, he saw the worry there: not fear for herself, but for the small life she guarded.

  Jonah walked beside Miles, but tension tugged at him. He wasn’t angry — just hungry. Tired. Stretched.

  “We’ve got maybe a day’s food left if we ration hard,” Jonah said. “Less if the oxen keep moving slow.”

  Miles nodded. “Finch knows?”

  “Finch always knows,” Jonah answered. “Question is what he plans to do about it.”

  As if summoned, Finch lifted a hand, calling for a halt.

  The wagons rolled into a loose cluster beneath the shade of a few stunted cottonwoods. The oxen dropped their heads immediately to graze whatever stubborn green shoots they could find.

  Finch gathered the adults in a loose circle. Jonah and Miles stood toward the back. Esther joined them quietly, her son asleep against her shoulder.

  Finch cleared his throat — not for attention, but because his voice was raw.

  “Alright,” he said. “We’ve got problems.”

  A few murmurs of agreement rippled through the circle.

  Finch continued: “Food’s low. Water’s lower. The storm cost us more than we thought, and last night’s attack slowed us down. That basin ahead — the bad one — we need strength to cross it. And we don’t have enough.”

  A woman near the Dunnes’ wagon choked out, “Captain, we’ve children.”

  “And they’ll starve same as us if we don’t plan,” Finch said, rough but honest. “We’re at a crossroads — literally and figuratively.”

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  Miles watched, heart tightening as the camp braced for the next words.

  “We ration,” Finch said. “Starting now. Half portions. Adults last. Children first.”

  No arguing. No protests. Only fear. This wasn’t a democratic vote — it was survival.

  Jonah muttered under his breath, “This is going to get ugly.”

  Finch continued, voice carrying over the dusty clearing.

  “We don’t have enough to stretch through the basin if something goes wrong — and something always does. We need game. We need water. We need luck.”

  Miles swallowed hard. “Do we have any of those?”

  Jonah gave a humorless smile. “Maybe the last one.”

  Then Finch said something Miles didn’t expect:

  “We need hunters.”

  Jonah stiffened. “It’s risky splitting off.”

  Finch nodded. “I know. But if we don’t, we lose people anyway.”

  He scanned the crowd. Eyes settled first on the experienced men — then, strangely, on Miles.

  Miles stiffened.

  Finch’s expression stayed unreadable. “You’ve got sharp eyes. You see things early. That can save a hunting party.”

  Miles swallowed. “I… I can try. But I’ve never hunted anything bigger than a rabbit.”

  Jonah stepped forward instantly. “Then he’s not going alone.”

  Finch gave him a curt nod. “Didn’t plan on it.”

  Miles’s ribs ached. His stomach twisted with hunger and fear. But he nodded too. Because everyone had to do their part — and secrets didn’t matter if they all starved.

  When the meeting broke apart, Esther lingered beside him.

  “You will be careful,” she said — not a question, not a warning, but a promise she needed him to make.

  “I will,” Miles whispered.

  She touched his cheek gently — a mother’s blessing. “Bring the wind back with you.”

  Jonah approached then, wiping sweat from his brow. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Yes,” Miles said quietly. “I do.”

  Jonah studied him. Something deep and warm and dangerous lived in his eyes. Something that said he wasn’t afraid of danger — but he was afraid of losing Miles.

  “Well,” Jonah said softly, “then I’m going with you.”

  Miles felt his breath hitch. Not fear this time. Something else.

  They started gathering supplies — rifles, canteens, a thin sack of salt.

  Finch called out over the camp: “We leave in ten minutes. Anyone hunting rides light.”

  As Miles slung a canteen over his shoulder, Jonah leaned close and murmured:

  “Don’t worry. I’m not letting anything happen to you out there.”

  Miles’s heart stuttered.

  The truth wasn’t ready to be spoken yet — but the world was changing around him.

  Danger tightening. Hunger rising. Secrets pressing at the seams.

  And as Miles looked toward the harsh, dry basin ahead, he realized:

  Survival wasn’t just about food anymore.

  It was about who he trusted. Who he walked beside. Who he was willing to protect — and who was willing to protect him.

  And Jonah? Jonah was willing.