Evan remembered the knock on the door.
The officials in their crisp uniforms.
The way they'd taken Helena's arms, firm but not quite rough.
"You're being detained for seditious speech against the state. Your son will be remanded to military youth services."
"No!" She'd struggled then, desperate. "He's eight years old! Please, he's just a child—"
Evan had been in his room—actually, he'd been under his bed playing "Secret Agent," clutching his toy car. He'd come running at the sound of her voice, his small face white with fear.
"Mama?"
"Evan, baby, it's okay—"
But it wasn't okay. One of the officials moved toward him and she'd screamed.
"Don't touch him! Don't you TOUCH him!"
"Mama!" Evan tried to run to her, but another official caught him, held him back. He'd kicked the man's shin hard. Got a sharp reprimand and tighter grip for his trouble.
Their eyes met across the room.
"I love you," she called out. "Evan, I love you so much. Remember that. No matter what happens, remember—"
They dragged her toward the door.
"Be kind," she cried out.
The door slammed shut.
Through the window, Evan saw Helena's face, tears streaming, her mouth forming words. But what were they? What was she saying?
She'd reached for him, even though she couldn't touch him, even though everything was already over.
Evan woke to pale morning light filtering through the broken cabin walls and the disconcerting realization that Anaya wasn't pressed against his side anymore.
He jerked upright, panic flooding through him, his hand instinctively reaching for a weapon he didn't have. "Anaya—"
"I'm here, Papa!"
She appeared from the shadows at the back of the cabin, her face bright with excitement despite everything they'd been through. She was wearing his shirt—oversized and hanging to her knees and of course it was torn—but she looked remarkably refreshed. How did kids do that? Hours of terror, hypothermia, and exhaustion, and here she was bouncing around like it was a normal morning.
"What are you doing?" Evan asked, his voice rough. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest as he tried to stand. His back felt like it was on fire. "And it's barely dawn. Normal people sleep, kid."
"Exploring!" Anaya said cheerfully. "Papa, there's so much stuff here! Old boxes and chairs and—and I found clothes!" She held up a bundle of fabric triumphantly. "Real clothes! They're dusty but they're not wet."
"Dusty's an upgrade at this point." Evan managed to get to his feet, wincing with every movement. The adrenaline from last night had completely worn off, leaving him acutely aware of every cut, every bruise, every place the razor wire had torn through his skin. His back was the worst—he could feel blood crusted on his skin, the fabric of his pants sticking to wounds.
The cabin looked different in daylight. It was small—one room, maybe twelve by twelve feet—with gaps in the walls where the wood had rotted away. An old iron stove sat in one corner, rusted but potentially functional. A broken chair. Some wooden crates. And in the back, what looked like an old storage trunk.
It was freezing. Evan could see his breath misting in the air, could feel the cold seeping into his bones. They needed warmth. They needed clothes. They needed—
"Here, Papa!" Anaya was pulling things from the trunk with the enthusiasm of someone discovering treasure. "Look! These might fit you!" She held up an old shirt, moth-eaten but serviceable.
Evan moved toward her, each step sending fresh waves of pain through his back. He reached the trunk and looked inside. Someone had lived here once, or at least stored supplies here. There were clothes—old but dry—blankets that smelled of mildew but would provide warmth, even a few canned goods that were probably decades old but might still be edible if they got desperate enough.
"Good job, little light," he said, ruffling her tangled hair. She beamed at the praise, and something in his chest tightened at that smile.
Anaya pulled out a pair of pants next, child-sized, probably for a boy of seven or eight. They'd be too big for her, but infinitely better than nothing. "Can I wear these, Papa? Please?"
"Yeah, get dressed. We need to—" Evan reached for the flannel shirt and his back seized up. He gasped, the pain so sharp and sudden it whited out his vision for a moment.
"Papa?" Anaya's voice changed instantly from excited to worried. "Papa, what's wrong?"
"Nothing, kid. Just sore from—" He tried to straighten and his back screamed again. "From last night. Turns out razor wire doesn't care about your feelings."
Anaya moved around behind him, and he heard her small gasp. "Papa, your back. There's blood. Lots of blood."
"It's fine. Just some cuts from the fence."
"It's not fine!" Her voice was small but firm. "Let me see."
"Anaya, we don't have time—"
"Please, Papa."
There was something in her voice—an authority that shouldn't exist in a five-year-old—that made Evan comply. He sighed. "Fine. But if you faint, I'm not carrying you. I'm old and broken, remember?"
He turned, presenting his back to her.
Her fingers, light as feathers, touched the wounds. Evan hissed in pain.
"The metal things cut you really bad," Anaya said softly. "And some of the cuts are deep. They might get sick." She paused. "Infected. That's the word Mama uses. Infected."
"Yeah, well, infection can get in line." Evan tried to sound casual. "We'll deal with it later. Right now we need to—"
But Anaya wasn't listening. She was already running toward the door, her small feet pattering across the wooden floor.
"Kid! Anaya, wait—" Evan tried to follow but his body wouldn't cooperate. His back spasmed again and he caught himself against the wall, breathing hard. Dammit. He couldn't even chase after a five-year-old. Some protector he was.
He made it to the doorway, scanning the tree line frantically. Where had she gone? They were supposed to stay hidden, stay quiet. Morrison's soldiers could still be searching. And here he'd let her just run off into—
She emerged from the forest about thirty yards away, her arms full of something green. Plants. She'd gone to gather plants.
Relief flooded through Evan so intense it made him dizzy. Or maybe that was blood loss. Hard to tell.
Anaya ran back to the cabin, slightly breathless. "I found them! The good ones. Mama showed me."
"Showed you what?" Evan leaned against the doorframe. "And next time, maybe mention you're leaving before you bolt? I've had enough heart attacks for one week."
"The healing plants." She looked up at him with those too-large amber eyes, completely serious. "The ones that stop the hurt and the sick-infection."
Evan wanted to argue that they didn't have time for this, that they needed to get moving, that Morrison's helicopters could find them at any moment. But the pain in his back was getting worse, not better, and if infection set in...
"Okay," he said. "What do you need me to do?"
"Sit down. On the floor."
"You're very bossy, you know that?"
"Mama says I get it from you."
"Your Papa sounds like a smart guy." Evan lowered himself carefully to the dusty floorboards. "And very handsome, I bet."
Anaya giggled.
He settled on the floor with all the grace of a wounded bear. Anaya knelt behind him, and he felt her small hands on his back again, gentler this time.
"This is going to feel weird," she warned. "But it'll help. Mama always helps me this way when I get hurt."
Evan had no idea what she meant until he felt it—something cool and slightly wet being pressed against his wounds. The plants she'd gathered, he realized. She was crushing them directly onto his cuts.
At first it stung, sharp enough to make him grit his teeth. But then—
The pain began to fade.
Not slowly, the way pain usually receded. But quickly, noticeably, like someone was turning down a dial. Within seconds, the burning fire across his back had diminished to a dull ache. Within a minute, even that was fading.
"What the hell?" Evan muttered.
"It's the silverleaf," Anaya said, her small voice full of concentration. "And don't use bad words."
"Sorry. What the heck?"
"Papa." She sighed like he was being difficult. "It grows near running water. Mama says it pulls the hurt out and helps the body remember how to fix itself." Her hands moved across his back, methodical and sure. "But you have to ask it nicely. You have to thank it for helping."
Magic. She was using some kind of elvish healing magic on him. Evan had heard stories—elves who could heal wounds with a touch, who could commune with plants—but he'd always dismissed them as propaganda. Exaggeration designed to make the enemy seem more dangerous, more other.
But this was real. He could feel it working, could feel his wounds knitting together at an impossible speed.
"How are you doing this?" he asked, his voice slightly awed.
"I'm not doing anything," Anaya said. "The plants are doing it. I'm just asking them to help." She paused. "And maybe giving them a little push. Mama says I'm good at the pushing part. She says I have strong magic for someone so young."
"So you're basically a tiny magical drill sergeant. Got it."
More cool pressure on his back. More of that impossible, rapid healing. Evan felt the deepest cuts closing, felt torn skin drawing back together. It wasn't complete—he could still feel the injuries, still felt sore and battered—but it was enough. Enough to move, to run if they needed to. Enough to keep going.
"There," Anaya said finally, satisfaction in her voice. "All better. Or better enough, anyway. Mama could do it perfect, but I'm still learning."
Evan tested his back, rolling his shoulders experimentally. The pain was still there, but muted, manageable. What should have taken weeks to heal had been reduced to something like a few days' recovery in just minutes.
"Kid," he said, turning to look at her. "That was incredible."
She smiled, pleased by the praise, though there was exhaustion in her eyes now. The healing had cost her something—energy, maybe, or something deeper. "Mama says helping is what magic is for. Not hurting. That's why..." Her smile faded. "That's why she doesn't understand why humans think we're monsters."
The word hit Evan like a punch. Monsters. That's what he'd been taught. What he'd believed for thirty-two years. No. Not for thirty-two. His mother had always been kind towards elves.
He looked at this small girl who'd just healed his wounds with plants and magic and gentleness, and felt the last of his old worldview crumble to dust.
"You're not monsters," he said quietly. "Humans were all wrong."
Anaya studied his face for a long moment, and he had the unsettling feeling she was looking inside him again, seeing the truth of his words. Then she nodded, satisfied.
Evan watched her and felt something shift in his chest.
When had he started thinking of her as his kid?
"Papa?" Anaya was watching him with those too-perceptive eyes. "You look sad."
"I'm not sad, kid. Just thinking."
"About what?"
"About how you're tougher than most soldiers I know." He meant it as a joke, but it came out sincere. "About how you're pretty incredible."
Anaya's face lit up. "Really?"
"Really."
"Papa?" Anaya's voice was small. "You look different now."
"Different how?"
"You look... more free. More free than in that bad place."
Evan froze. "What?"
"The one with all the cameras. Where you first found me. You looked trapped. But now you look free."
Something in Evan's chest cracked open.
She was right.
"Well," he said, his voice rougher than he intended. "That's because there are no cameras here."
But the truth was more complicated. Facility Seven had cameras, yes, but he'd been trapped by something deeper—by the orders he'd followed, the person they'd forced him to become. He'd forgotten how to be Evan Cross. Until Anaya. Living with her had reminded him. She'd made him remember how to be human.
But he couldn't say that.
So instead he said, "No cameras means I can make all the stupid faces I want. Watch this."
He crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue.
Anaya burst into giggles.