Then I remember she likes bear hugs. If Rayla Cadwell ever giggled, that’s what she would have been doing when Xavier hoisted her like a boss into the air. I decide to take a chance.

The key is to maximize the cuddle factor, so I wrap my arms all the way around her rigid frame—careful to avoid her bullet wound—and squeeze tight. The whole air-lift part of Xavier’s embrace might be pushing my luck too far.

Then I think the world’s about to end, because instead of fighting it, Rayla lifts me into the air, and I swear to Whitman she giggles.

It’s brief, but it happened.

“I heard you took down a Killer Drone,” Rayla says.

“Yeah, but I don’t like to brag,” I lie.

When she puts me down, both of us are grinning from ear to ear.

“What’d I miss while I was zonked out?” I ask Rayla, eager to get caught up. “Which was not my fault, by the way. Blaise the fire demon practically poisoned me.”

Kipling chuckles. “Blaise sure is a funny one, wearin’ that mask ’n’ all. But he checked in on you every hour on the hour.”

“He did?”

“Battle bonds,” Rayla says, then switches things back to business. “We’re moving soon. The members are waiting.”

“Already?” Kipling says, buttoning up his collar and straightening his wide, flat-brimmed hat. “We’d best be gettin’ along, then.”

The future waits for no one.

Whoa. The wonders of nature smack me right in the face the second I step out of the cave entrance. I’m standing inside an enormous canyon floor that’s surrounded on all sides by red-and-pink rock walls as tall as high-rises. It’s desolate and alive all at the same time.

It’s also brighter than hellfire here.

Forced to squint, I still manage to make out the crowd gathered up ahead. When we get closer I see that Xavier’s leading a demonstration on how to properly handle a gun—weapons are in every person’s hands.

Battle prep.

A jumbo all-electric semitruck is parked behind him, its sleek, silver profile shaped to look like a bullet. What is that for?

I look to Rayla, but her eyes tell me, Hush, you’ll find out soon.

Blaise and Malik are up front, and I move to join them while Rayla and Kipling take center stage with Xavier. Our numbers have grown while I was knocked out—there definitely weren’t this many people when we left Colorado. Where did this surge come from?

“Who are all these new people?” I ask Blaise.

He takes a cautious step back, thinking I might punch him. My curiosity beats out any desire for revenge, plus I did need that beauty sleep. I’m more awake and energized than I’ve ever been.

When he sees I’m not angry, he relaxes and leans in close, all excited. “Kipling’s a stop on the underground. He shelters people who’ve crossed the border. Can you believe that?”

Gluts. The word pops into my head. I’ve never seen one in person before. I look around and spot a group of unfamiliar faces at the back of the crowd. Is that them? They look just like every other Common member. Weary, fed up, and ready to rebel.

“I don’t have much to say,” Rayla encourages us, “beyond that we all have a reason to fight. Remember yours in the battle for Dallas tonight.” Fingers balled into a fist, she pulls up her right sleeve and exposes her snake-tattooed wrist.

“Resist much,” Rayla says.

“Obey little,” I answer along with the crowd, my first time saying the Common’s words out loud. I’m still tattooless—I’ve got to change that pronto—but I stretch out my wrist alongside my cohorts in a return salute. All around me, I hear the rebellion’s cry in at least three foreign languages. Double whoa.

The full impact of what we’re doing hits me. People from different countries, states, cities, backgrounds, generations, and social classes, all united together in the same fight.

It’s like it’s the whole world against Roth.

No way the man’s not going down tonight.

I’ve heard it said everything’s bigger in Texas, but it’s a whole other deal to experience it for myself. We’ve driven for six hours, and that’s still not even halfway across the state. The land stretches on to infinity.

Even the sky’s too big here. It’s so king-sized and overbearing it feels like I’m living in the clouds.

Not a fan.

Hey, Texas, ever hear of the phrase too much of a good thing? That’s you.

There aren’t even any people here. Our Cavalry has passed only one drifter. One! What’s the point in bragging about all this land when you can’t even utilize most of it?

And it’s hot. I mean Hades kind of hot. No matter how much sunblock I smear on, I’ve come to accept my dark-brown skin is still going to burn.

“Yech, what is that smell?” Blaise says, crammed in the bucket seat between Rayla and me.

“Cattle manure,” Kipling answers from behind the wheel. “Nothin’ like it anywhere else.” He breathes in the sharp, rotten odor like it’s perfume.

Absolutely zilch for miles, and now there’s wire fencing edging both sides of the road. “Cattle farms?” I ask, incredulous. “Those still exist here?”

“The high rankers have to have their meat.” Rayla spits out the words.

Nope, can’t do it. Got to block all my breathing holes now. I unzip the bag Kipling gave me and pull out a spare shirt, tying it around the lower half of my face. It doesn’t help.

“Luxury stinks,” I say, my voice muffled.

The Dallas skyline is supposed to appear southeast on the horizon. From time to time I squint my eyes in that direction, but I mostly keep my mind on anything other than our final destination. It’s best not to overthink things.

I gaze out the windshield to study the large herds of cattle that cluster along the fences. They barely lift their heads to watch our metal army pass by—they just munch on the grass, their tails lazily flicking away the flies.

“I’ve never had grass-fed beef before,” I say. No big reveal there. Who has? Maybe the cowboy. “Is it really that much better than lab beef?”

“Not better than my ’roo sticks,” Kipling says. “But these are genetically modified cattle—heat resistant and bred for top-quality beef. You can taste the difference.”

“But aren’t cow emissions worse than carbon dioxide?” Blaise asks, all cranky from behind the crook of his elbow. He can’t stand the smell either. “How are these farms even legal?”

He’s right. Livestock emit methane, a toxic combination of farts, burps, and shit. The number-one destroyer of the environment, folks. Cow farts.

I pop another one of Kipling’s tasty treats into my mouth.

“You really should monetize these kangaroo sticks, you know,” I say, looking over at Kipling. “You’re sitting on a gold mine.”

“Glad you like ’em,” Kipling says. “Ol’ family recipe.” He makes life sound slow and friendly when it’s just not. I mean, we’re racing straight into the center of a freaking warzone.

“We’ll be comin’ up on the outskirts of Dallas soon,” Kipling says, the mood of the truck flipping to serious on a dime. “Get yerselves ready.”