Hunger is a sharp motivator.
By noon, the adrenaline from the crash had faded completely, replaced by the gnawing ache in our stomachs. The wood stove kept us from freezing, but it couldn't stop the starving.
"I am officially eating my own shoe leather," Sienna announced, staring at the empty shelves of the shack. "If we don't get food soon, I'm going to start looking at Rook like he's a rotisserie chicken."
Rook didn't look up from where he was sharpening his knife. He just grunted.
"We need supplies," Cassian said. He was sitting up on the mattress, cleaning his gun. He looked better than yesterday—Isolde's stitches were holding—but he was still pale. "Rook. Take the truck. Find a town. Keep it small."
"I'm going with him," I said, standing up and grabbing my coat (a moth-eaten flannel I found in the closet).
"No," Cassian said instantly. "You're the target, Elena. Your face is on every news channel in the country."
