Part One · Rise

Chapter 1

A Boy on the Wing

A red flake of snow rose slowly from the ground, marking the first day of the fifth season.

Not fell. Rose.

The flake drifted upwards, spinning lazy circles in the firelight before vanishing into the star-filled night sky.

A sorry lot of kids sat around a campfire. They were dirty, bandaged, and covered nearly head to toe in bright red sand. Behind the kids sat a parked airship — a poorly parked airship, one might add. A bright moon high above silhouetted the small galleon's ropes and mainmast.

Below the airship, silhouetted by the flames of a sputtering campfire, red sneakers could be seen sticking out of a far-too-small impromptu tent made of a few sticks, a spare pair of pants, and a shirt.

The boy inside stared up at the ceiling of this not-so-tenty-tent. It had a hole in it near the armpit of the fabric. A tent with a view. People pay good money for that, he thought.

A buzzing noise caused the boy to jump.

"Just my phone," he whispered as he pulled a vibrating cell phone out of his back jeans pocket.

"11:11. Right on time," he said as he continued to watch the rising red snow.

The boy was not, strictly speaking, at the fire. He'd dragged his tent a little ways off from the others — not out of rudeness, just the particular kind of tiredness that made company feel like one more thing he'd have to carry. From where he lay, he could clearly see the fire burning, small and orange against the dark. He was close enough to feel some of the warmth in his toes, but far enough away he hoped he wouldn't be noticed.

"Hey, Frog."

The boy named Frog jumped again, nearly causing his tent to collapse. A girl with bushy red hair and thick, crooked glasses leaned in from the right side of his tent. Frog stared at her. Her comically large green eyes, magnified by her lenses, stared back at him.

"You've got wood," she said. It wasn't a question.

"I—what?"

"Wood. Logs. Fuel." She gestured at the small stack piled near his tent. "Come on, I'll trade you a story for it. That's the going rate around here, in case nobody's told you, Ilene."

Frog rolled his eyes. This girl was named Anna. She'd called him Ilene since their second day in the desert. His too small red sneakers had caused large blisters to form on his sweaty feet and so, he'd limped to the camps each night since.

Frog didn't like Anna very much, for more reasons than being called girl names. But Frog didn't have the energy to argue. So, with a great sigh, he gathered up one of his two logs and stomped with her over to the fire. He plopped down and stared at her through the flames. The wind that blew by made it hard to tell where the fire ended and her hair began.

"Oh. Good, firewood. Thanks," said a green-bearded boy next to Frog, brightening as Frog handed him the small log. He'd met Oren just a few days earlier. He didn't know if he'd have made it through the desert without him. Oren was nice and very strong for he carried a heavy dirty shield around every day on the long desert trek.

Frog held out his gloved hands toward the fire, nearly close enough for the flames to lick his fingers.

"You never explained why your beard is green. Did you dye it that color on purpose?" Frog asked Oren.

Oren grabbed a large stick and poked at the fire before answering.

"Dwarfolk," he said, unbothered, feeding a log to the fire as if that explained it.

It didn't.

"Like I said on that bus, I get it from me ma's side of the family," Oren explained. "Green ain't too common, but it's not abnormal or anything."

"So, Frog. Have you thought about it some more? When are you from, I mean?" Oren asked, settling back onto his log. Oren then poked his stick at the dirt caked on his shield. The dirt and the grass on it didn't budge. "I really hate this thing. Bleeehhh."

Frog blinked. He opened his mouth to answer, but paused.

"When?" Frog asked, confused. "What do you mean, when?"

Oren's green eyebrows, the same shade of green as his beard, rose like he wasn't quite sure if Frog was joking.

Frog furrowed his brow. He tried to think of the year. A date. Anything.

Nothing came. Just like when Oren had asked on that bus four days ago.

"Still can't remember? That witch, er, Widow, sure did a number on us all, eh? Don't remember my name, either. My real one, at least. And I can't for the life of me remember when I'm from. Although, I know it's the Folk Age," said Oren chuckling.

"I suppose you're right. I can't remember. I can't even read the date in my book. Folk Age? Widow said I was from the Deathbox age. Whatever that means. She kept calling me a Nowfolk."

Someone sniffled from the other side of the fire. Frog took a look around, hoping he didn't look as tired, dirty, and miserable as the others that sat there with him. The girl from before with flaming red hair sat next to a small blonde-haired girl. Even though the blonde girl was dirty and wrapped in so many blankets she looked more like a gray walrus than a person, Frog could tell she was pretty.

No one else looked at her. They all seemed lost in their own thoughts. Soon, the blonde girl had tears pooling under her eyes.

A tear fell down her cheek, cutting a clean line in the soot that covered most of her face. Another tear fell, and then another.

Frog cleared his throat. He didn't have much practice talking to girls, but she seemed like she needed help. "Um. Er. Are you, er, alright?" Frog choked out.

The girl looked at him. Her bright blue eyes were puffy and red — from the smoke or from crying, Frog couldn't tell. Maybe both.

"Are you cold?" Frog asked, pulling at the blanket on his shoulder. He didn't want to give it up, but he figured he had to ask.

Four days. They'd traveled the desert for four days. He'd survived this long. Sure, he'd lost his first blanket, but that first night had taught him to appreciate a blanket — especially in the desert. So what if it had belonged to another student? He hadn't killed her. She'd just… well, died.

"I remembered something," she said instead of answering. "I remember… remember from when I was little—"

She was having a hard time getting it out. Frog wondered what it was. The girl sniffed and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her shirt.

"What do you remember?" asked a boy who had been standing apart from everyone, leaning against the ship's hull with his arms crossed. As he walked into the light of the fire, Frog could see that he was a tall, thin, light-skinned black kid. The boy wore a fancy red jacket. Frog had seen the words "Wire Vane" stitched on the back as the boy normally marched near the front of them each day, almost unbothered by the heat and sand even though his jacket was thick and fur-lined.

The red-jacketed boy sat next to the girl that was crying. His cat-like golden eyes bored into Frog's for a moment before returning to the fire. He didn't carry an old leather red book like Frog did. Instead, he had a box strapped to his belt. Frog knew that's where he kept cards. The witch had called them Rooks, but she hadn't explained what game could be played with them.

In a voice that was deep for an eleven-year-old, the red-jacketed boy again asked, "What do you remember, Princess?"

"P-princess?" stammered Frog. "You're a Princess? I bet that's quite nice."

The girl blushed. "It's not as great as one might think," she said, scratching the top of her head.

She looked at the red-jacketed boy and asked, "Who, who are you?"

"How rude of me. I'm Vane," he said, paused, and then finished by saying, "my lady."

"The witch named me Beck. Alright, Mr. Vane. I'll t-tell you," the girl said, "bu-but first—" She pointed across the fire. "—he put in the first log earlier."

Next to Oren sat a squat, mustached man wrapped in a blanket far too small for him, snoring with his chin on his chest.

Oren nudged the man with his elbow. The man startled awake. "What?"

"It's your turn, old man," said Vane, who didn't look happy to have to wait to hear the girl's story.

"You've been mumbling about Baja Blast for an hour," Anna said flatly. "What's a Baja Blast?"

The man — Frank Walker, by the name stitched onto his work shirt — scratched his head. "How'd I even get here?" A few of the kids shrugged.

"On the bus," said Frog. "You were a few seats in front of me when, when, well you know."

Oren tossed a small bag to the man, who clumsily caught it.

"Sight Sand," Oren called helpfully from a few feet away. "Throw it in the fire. It'll help."

Mr. Frank shrugged. He squinted at the fire and then tossed the whole bag in.

The fire exploded blue.

Frog fell over, off his log seat. A few of the kids snickered. Frog heard Anna, the annoying redhead, shout "Not the whole bag, you idiot!" as Frog unceremoniously shuffled back to his seat.

Frog's eyes went wide as the blue flames settled into an image. A very clear image.

In the flames, as clear as any TV, the children saw a mustached man sitting in a truck, fuming. He leaned on the horn, cursing the immobile traffic ahead. Frog could swear he heard the stuttering of the engines and smell the muffler smoke from the other cars.

"Did you guys hear the horn actually honk too?" Frog asked. Anna and Vane looked at Frog like he was an idiot. The fire stopped, like a TV might if you clicked the pause button on a remote.

Oren leaned over and whispered in his ear, "The name is a bit misleading, ya see. The rest of your senses work too. Very immerrrr-sive."

"The combination of a Taco Bell breakfast and unexpected road construction had thrown my mornin' into a disaster," Mr. Frank groaned, continuing his story. The image in the fire resumed.

With a grunt, Fire-Mr. Frank reached for an oversized cup. He tilted it back, expecting a flood of sugary refreshment. Instead, he sucked nothing but air.

Frog raised an eyebrow. Had he just heard Mr. Frank thinking too?

"Dammit!" Fire-Mr. Frank shouted as he chucked the empty cup out the window.

The traffic inched forward. A glimmer of hope sparked in his eyes. "Finally," he muttered.

Something smacked Fire-Mr. Frank square in the face.

Fire-Mr. Frank yelped. His half-eaten burrito tumbled onto his lap.

Frog's stomach rumbled as he smelled the cheesy burrito. What he wouldn't give for just one bite.

"What the—!?" shouted Fire-Mr. Frank.

There, sitting innocently on the passenger seat, alongside a briefcase, a company badge, and a brown bag with the words "Lunch. Wifey. Love You" on it was the very cup Fire-Mr. Frank had tossed out the window moments before.

Fire-Mr. Frank's face contorted into utter bewilderment. He rubbed his eyes. When he looked again, the cup remained stubbornly present.

Then Frog heard it — a child's laughter, piercing through the drone of idling engines.

"You're right, it is quite immersive," whispered Frog into Oren's ear.

Fire-Mr. Frank stuck his head out the window, cool air whipping his face. His eyes darted left and right, scanning the gridlocked cars. No kids in sight.

Another giggle. He craned his neck upward.

Fire-Mr. Frank's jaw dropped.

Hovering above the traffic was a little girl, maybe ten or eleven, with fiery red hair and oversized glasses. She grinned down at him, perched in what looked like a miniature wooden boat.

"Anna, that's you," said Frog. The fire paused again.

Anna, her eyebrows raised in surprise, simply said, "I don't own an airship. I've fixed plenty, but never owned one."

The blue fire paused again with Fire-Mr. Frank still staring up at the sky with a stupid look on his face.

"What's that?" Oren asked, pointing at the fire.

They all stared into the fire. Mr. Frank squinted at it, then he shrugged.

Frog could see that high above Fire-Mr. Frank was a massive airship resembling a pirate vessel that glided through cotton-candy clouds. Smaller airships detached from its hull, scattering like leaves in a breeze.

"I don't remember seeing it," Mr. Frank said. "Well, anyways, where was I? Oh, right. The flying girl."

And with that, the image in the fire started again.

Fire-Mr. Frank blinked hard. The contraption defied logic. Two propellers pointed skyward. Steam pipes jutted from the sides. At the rear, a small car engine hummed.

"'Tis the season! Happy first day of Rise!" the girl, who really looked just like Anna, shouted.

Before Fire-Mr. Frank could respond, she pressed a button on her ship's dash. The impossible flying machine shimmered and vanished.

"He saw you!" a boy's voice called from somewhere unseen.

The girl's laughter echoed, fading into the distance. "If he remembers that is. Who'll believe him if he tells?"

"Anna had a point," Frog said as the fire paused yet again. "I wouldn't have believed you if you had told me before I got out here. Did you ever tell anyone, Mr. Frank?"

"Uh, well," Mr. Frank stammered, blushing.

The blue fire flickered, and a new scene emerged — it was Fire-Mr. Frank in a news studio.

Bright lights illuminated Fire-Mr. Frank's flushed face as he sat across from a polished news reporter.

"So, Mr. Walker, you're saying you saw… flying children?" The reporter's voice dripped with barely concealed amusement.

Fire-Mr. Frank leaned forward, mustache quivering. "Not UFOs, I tell ya! Kids on little boats with motors!"

Behind the camera, a technician stifled a laugh. The makeup artist rolled her eyes.

"They just zoomed right over my truck," Fire-Mr. Frank continued, gesticulating wildly. "Red-haired girl, big glasses. Vanished into thin air!"

The reporter's lips twitched. "Well, there you have it, folks." He turned to face the camera, composure intact. "Aliens, flying children, or too much Baja Blast? You decide. Back to you in the studio, Carol."

As soon as they cut, the crew erupted in laughter. Fire-Mr. Frank's face reddened further.

"I know what I saw," Fire-Mr. Frank muttered, slumping in his too small studio chair.

Outside, unseen, a small wooden boat zipped silently by the news station's window, far up in the night sky.

The image of Fire-Mr. Frank slowly faded as the fire shrunk and returned to a normal orange.

Every eye at the fire drifted toward Princess Beck in her thick blankets.

"Your turn," Oren said gently, from beside Frog. "You started crying earlier. Might as well finish it properly." Oren handed an identical pouch to Mr. Frank.

Anna's coaster-sized glasses glinted as she stared angrily at Mr. Frank from across the fire. Frog wondered if it had been her bag that Mr. Frank had thrown into the fire.

"Here you go, uh, princess lady," said Mr. Frank as he handed her the small brown pouch. The girl gingerly took it.

"Th-thank you, kind sir," she said. Mr. Frank blushed so red Frog could see it even against the light of the fire.

Beck looked at the fire for a long moment, then reached into her lap and scooped up a handful of the blue sand. Her hands shook as she poured it into the orange flames.

The fire again grew and turned a brilliant blue.

Within the fire, Frog could see a young blonde-haired girl asleep against a plane window. It was obviously Princess Beck, but younger. She looked no older than Frog's younger sister, who was seven.

Lightning flashed in the distance, and the aircraft shook, waking her. Her forehead unstuck slowly from the plane's cold, hard window. She blinked lazily and wiped the drool from her noticeably dry mouth.

Red snow, dark as fine rouge lipstick, bunched up starkly on top of the plane's shiny, metallic white wing. A blinking red light on the wing, along with flashes of lightning in the distance, lit up the thick, fluffy clouds the plane flew through.

And again, like with Mr. Frank's story, Frog could hear the whine of the plane and smell the plane's navy fake leather seats. Frog reached for his forehead and could swear he could feel the cold of the plane's window there. The feelings were muted and distant, but they were there. The fire felt hot as Frog leaned forward, but he noticed that he could then hear even better.

Fire-Beck poked her head above the seat in front of her, peering over the rows to her right. Most of the passengers were asleep. The few she found awake seemed to be trying to drift off again after being shaken awake like her. She plopped back down to find the elderly woman next to her staring right at her with a gleam in her eye and a warm smile. The lady had a kind face, shiny silver hair, and a light blue pearl necklace. The fuzzy white shawl around her shoulders looked quite warm. The girl pulled her arms close, wishing she had something like that.

"You are quite a hard sleeper, my dear. That was one of the lightest shakes of the night, yet you finally stirred. I, for one, am no fan of flying," said the lady in a raspy, tired sort of voice. It didn't match her look at all.

Fire-Beck stared at her with dry, sleep-crusted eyes, wondering how to respond. The thought of an elderly lady watching her sleep was a bit creepy. Was there no better way to pass the time while flying? Her eyes widened and her cheeks reddened as she realized the lady must have seen her drool. She turned away and lowered her head, pulling something to her chest that she was holding. She had a plush toy in her hand. It looked somewhat like a furry killer whale, but it had legs and arms.

"I figured if I turned away, then maybe the lady would just stop talking," explained Beck. The fire paused as she wiped her eyes.

"What's that thing?" Frog asked. "The thing you're holding, Beck, er Princess Beck."

The flames paused again.

"Just call me Beck, please. Oh, that's my plush Sky Panda. I used to carry it on every flight with me for luck."

Anna dropped the old yellow screwdriver she'd been fiddling with in her lap to the red sand between her feet. Beck stopped speaking and looked over at Anna. And as it did with Mr. Frank, the image in the fire paused once again.

"You know, I really don't get why people on airships talk to each other," Anna said looking quite serious. "The chance of ever meeting another person on a commercial airship is quite low — at most a three to five percent chance. I personally have never, not once, met a person a second time on another flight. Yet I overhear others discussing family, work, hobbies. Why would anyone care to know those sorts of things about strangers? A dumb way to pass the time, if you ask me."

They hadn't.

Frog got the feeling he would never like this girl. He was wrong. Sort of.

"Let her continue, will you two?" said Vane. Anna stared daggers at him, but she shut up nonetheless. Beck continued.

The image in the blue fire started up again as lightning flashed in the distance. Rain pelted hard against her window and the plane rumbled, vibrating from the thunder. Fire-Beck stared out at the clouds, mostly to avoid more talking. It was interesting how the rain found them. If they were in the clouds — or above them — where was the rain falling from? An odd thing to wonder about, but she was quite bored.

Anna looked like she wanted to cut in and explain exactly how the rain was falling, but Vane stared at her, almost daring her to interrupt again. Anna stuck her tongue out and crossed her arms, but she kept quiet.

As she thought about how a cloud might feel to touch, the plane lurched. A baby somewhere let out a loud, piercing whine. She grabbed the seat in front of her as her head tapped the window painfully.

"Ouch!" shouted Frog as he grabbed his forehead. The others all stared at him. Vane looked like he wanted to throw Frog in the fire.

"Sorry, sorry. Go on," Frog said, waving at the fire. He leaned back further in his log seat.

Fire-Beck sat up, rubbing the sore spot on her forehead, and turned to the elderly lady to ask, "What was that?" — but the seat was empty. The fellow in the aisle seat was still snoring, head bobbing side to side as if nothing had happened. Maybe the lady had squeezed by earlier to use the restroom. She turned back to the window, hoping to find sleep if nothing else.

However, it wasn't sleep that stared back at her from outside the plane. Was that… a person on the wing?

She blinked hard and shook her head. What she'd seen made no sense. The lights must have been playing tricks on her. But when she looked again — sure enough, someone was there, standing on the wing. Staring right back at her was —

"A boy on the wing," Beck said as the fire paused on her view of the wing, with a person silhouetted against the lightning-lit clouds.

"Did no one else notice?" asked Frog. "People tend to notice when people are walking on plane wings, especially when they're already flying."

"I don't know how anyone would even get up there, let alone hold on," said Anna. "Those Nowfolk airplanes can fly at nearly 528,000 fathoms an hour."

"Fathoms?" Frog asked.

Anna tapped her chin and then said, "That's roughly six hundred miles per hour in Nowfolk measurements. Although, in that storm, they were probably going half that speed. Maybe around three hundred miles per hour. Still, that boy should have been chucked off like a rag doll."

They sat quiet for a moment, blue fire still paused with Fire-Beck staring at the boy on the wing.

"I thought it was odd too. I tried to tell a flight attendant," she said as the fire's image started up again.

Fire-Beck's mouth dropped open and her heart thudded in her chest like a drum being played by an angry toddler with four arms. She leapt from her seat and hopped past a man that was napping in the aisle seat on her row.

Fire-Beck then sprinted down the narrow, seat lined aisle toward a flight attendant a few rows behind hers. The flight attendant was talking to an old man in a brown bowler hat. Fire-Beck grabbed the lady's hand from behind which caused the lady to jump. Fire-Beck then opened her mouth to speak, but then she realized that she had no idea what to say. Was she really going to blurt out "Hello miss. There's a guy on the wing, and I think he's trying to break the plane. Please help!?"

It sounded mad to her even though she had seen it with her own eyes. Besides, what in the world could the flight attendant do? It wasn't like anyone was going to crawl out onto the wing to stop him. They were flying at eight hundred miles per hour, give or take, and were over the open seas.

"Not eight hundred, six hundred tops," Anna said shaking her head. The image paused again.

"Come again, miss Anna," Beck said.

"Not everyone knows mechanic stuff like you, Anna," Oren said with a huff. "Six hundred, a thousand. What does it matter. It was flying very fast."

"Doesn't, doesn't matter? I'll have you—" Anna started.

"Will you guys just let her finish already?" Vane put in with a growl. "Princess, please continue. I'm sorry about this lot."

"Thank you. It's quite alright. I don't mind," Beck said. "Where was I. Oh, right. I was thinking that we were flying so fast, six hundred miles an hour or whatever. It wasn't like you could just land a plane before someone on the wing could break it. If that's what he was up to which was at the top of my mind," said Beck.

The blue fire unpaused.

Frog then heard Fire-Beck's fast, frantic thoughts: Not to mention, as soon as she rattled off the situation and even if someone did believe her, wouldn't they just freak out and possibly make things even worse? Movies alone had taught her that. People did not take bad news on a plane well. She might as well go around shouting bomb, for all the good it would do.

"Uh, little miss. Would you please stop squeezing my hand so hard and let go?" asked the flight attendant. Her name was Wendy based on her name tag. Wendy promptly pulled her hand free of Fire-Beck's grip. "Can I help you? You look frightened. Where are your parents?"

Fire-Beck closed her mouth which was now very dry. She swallowed and replied to Wendy, "Can I please have some water. I'm in seat 18A."

"Sure thing, little miss. Please go back to your seat. The seatbelt sign is on," instructed Wendy crossly.

Fire-Beck smiled, nodded and promptly returned to her seat. It was harder to do as she had to squeeze past a sleeping fellow whose head now rested face first on the seat in front of him. When she had successfully wiggled her way past the man, she found that her window had iced over and was now very foggy. She covered her mouth to stop her breath from fogging the window. She then used the sleeve of her teal colored shirt to wipe away the fog.

She peered out the window, eyes greedily scanning the wing of the plane. And, sure enough, the boy was still there. He had his back to Fire-Beck and he appeared to be gazing off into the cloud, searching for something she couldn't see below the wing. The long jacket he wore was green, but through the rain and darkness, it was impossible to make out the words written on it in white.

"That's a Womple jacket," said Vane. The fire paused again.

"Womple?" asked Beck with a sniff.

"Students are called Womples. As in Coddiwomple. Our school colors are green, like that boy's jacket. That's the school we're being taken to. Or rather, walking to," Vane explained.

Beck nodded and then continued. The fire unpaused.

Someone tapped Fire-Beck's shoulder and her stomach lurched into her throat as she whirled around in her seat, striking something solid and wet with her elbow. Wendy's empty outstretched hand was mere inches from her. The sleeping man was awake looking perplexed and quite, well… wet. She saw a bright blue Jet Land Airlines cup bounce off the middle seat, hit the carpet on the plane floor and roll under the seats in front of her.

"Th— Thank you. I'm sorry. You scared me," Fire-Beck said, but was drowned out by the man angrily cursing at Wendy.

Wendy's cheeks turned a bright pink and she clenched her hands together in front of her with her, head bowed, as the man loudly chided her. The plane seemed to be channeling his anger for it rattled and whined and dropped slightly.

Fire-Beck, having been temporarily distracted by Wendy and the no-longer sleeping man, shouted, "The boy!" The man cut his remarks off as he and Wendy looked puzzled as they stared at her. She whipped her head back to stare back out the window. She craned her neck to look both high and low and as far left and as far right as possible. However, the boy was nowhere to be found.

"Idiot probably fell off," said Anna with a chuckle. "Even if it hadn't been raining, there was no way he'd have managed to stay up there long. He's probably splatted on top of someone's Nowfolk house."

Anna then gestured and shouted "splat!" with a giggle.

Beck looked sick.

"Uh, I'm sure he's alright," said Frog, although he wholeheartedly agreed with Anna. He shivered at the thought of being on the wing of a plane. One thing could be said about that boy. He sure was brave. Much braver than Frog knew he'd ever be.

"Please continue, Princess," said Vane, sneering at Frog.

Frog blushed and mumbled, "sorry." The fire unpaused.

Fire-Beck heard Wendy finally find her nerve as she quickly apologized to the man and told him she would fetch him a towel. The man continued to curse under his breath. Having satisfied herself with the fact that the boy was gone, Fire-Beck turned to look at the man. He wiped the cold water off of his reddened face with one hand and pushed himself up straight in his chair.

The angry man then turned and stared angrily at Fire-Beck with sleepy, bloodshot eyes. Fire-Beck shrugged with hands up, put the most innocent look she could muster on her face and then mouthed "Sorry". This seemed to do nothing to quell the man's ire. However, it wasn't like she could take it back. She obviously would if she could, but what was done, was done.

Wendy finally returned with the towel. She too had another cup of water for Fire-Beck, this one a plain red one with a lid. Fire-Beck thanked her as she more carefully received the cup from the chagrined flight attendant. The angry man comically pressed his back against the seat like that would have helped if another spill were to occur. Fire-Beck downed the water, feeling the cold liquid enter her stomach which had finally returned to its rightful place in her belly. She wasn't sure if she wanted the boy back there or not, but she continued to stare out the window as if she could will the boy to return.

The fire once again faded from blue back to an orange color. The fire was nearly out.

Frog wondered why Beck was so upset. His once white t-shirt, now stained red from the desert sand, barely kept out the breezy cold desert wind.

"It's getting really cold now," said Frog through a shiver. He glanced up at the star-filled night sky. The moon was no longer right above them, marking it well past midnight. "And it's pretty late too."

"What, what about the rock giant?" Oren asked.

"I can take first watch again, if you want?" said Frog.

"No, no. It's my turn. And I'm not really that sleepy, anyways. You go on," said Oren.

"You sure?" Frog asked.

Oren nodded.

Frog stood up and turned, walking over to his pitiful excuse for a tent. Frog crawled inside, laid his head on a makeshift shirt pillow, and again stared through the hole. The hole bothered him. He'd meant to patch it. He'd meant to do a lot of things.

Frog stared up at the clear, star-filled sky, watching the crescent moon. He heard the crackle of the fire outside and felt a pang of guilt for lying to Oren. He hadn't been sleepy, not really, but he just didn't really feel up to sharing. He shivered again. Even though the tent blocked some of the wind and he was curled up in his sad excuse for a blanket, he still felt quite cold.

Frog punched his crappy shirt pillow, rolled back over, and again stared at the moon. The moon that stared back at him was in the same crescent shape it had been that night about one year ago…

End of Chapter 1