I'm going to let you imagine about a month or two passing now. My leg seems to be getting better. Maximum acts no friendlier towards me, except for thanking me for choosing to take graveyard watch. Fang seems weirdly protective, of me in particular. Iggy is the one who acts most "normal". Nudge asks questions, and I build up the backstory of this face.

Miranda. Age fourteen, the same as the Flock. Natural light brown hair, grey eyes. History of escape attempts. Hails from the Midwest.

Oddly brief, for a story that must be fairly realistic. But most lives are brief on paper, I suppose. I almost feel guilty about Miranda (for Miranda, really). She sounds kind of interesting.

What does make me feel guilty? Well, is anyone truly comfortable with playing Judas? And of course, it fits into character too. Handy.

And then one night I can't take it. I'm scared because the face -- Miranda -- is trying to break training, and I'm scared that because she feels like this, I could too.

We're sitting around the campfire, in a silence.

"Thanks, guys," I say.

"What?" Iggy says.

"Thanks." I repeat myself. "For letting me come along with you for a ways. I just feel kinda skeevy. 'Cause I don't contribute much. And I just freeload off you guys."

I go on, Miranda's confession, maybe. But it's also mine, in a way. I was born to act.

Eventually she hits a bad point and storms off. Fang comes up behind me while I catch my breath.

He kisses my cheek, chastely; after telling them about the honest guilt I feel, I'm exhausted. No one in my production group is any good at revealing their real emotions: we lie about them too much. Fang and I have been -- if not "together" -- in each other's company long enough that he probably knew most of the story long before today. It's telling the rest of the Flock -- telling the infamous Maximum -- that's the problem.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he says lowly, pitching his voice so I'm the only who hears.

"I can't," I mutter; the rags of my training cry out. I am not supposed to tell the truth, but there's already a hole in the dam.

"I should have known something was wrong," he says, mouth not four inches from my ear.

"Don't be a martyr," I tell him. I do it enough for the both of us.

"You remind me of myself a little," he says. "You keep trying to hide the cracks until something finally breaks..." He puts his arms around me, pulling me close to him.

My eyesight is starting to blur up; I sniffle back tears as best I can. Too bad; tears start creeping down my face anyway. My nose will probably be running in a moment or two; I remember that I don't have any tissues.

Instead of saying anything, he just holds me in his arms. I lean back, crying for the first time since I was two, and totally beyond caring that this might mean the failure of the mission and the end of my short life. The only thing I care about is that Fang is holding me in his arms, and that it feels so good to have someone I wasn't raised with care about me.

He frees one hand and fishes in his jeans pocket, producing a pack of tissues, undoubtedly stolen from somewhere. He presses one into my hand and I blow my nose, wipe most of the tears away.

"Why?" he whispers in my ear. "Why do you try to hide it?"

"I'm not supposed to show emotion." Maybe if I talk quieter he won't hear me, it won't have really happened.

"You're not superhuman," he says.

"I was supposed to be." I sniffle, wipe my nose. My eyes are probably all bloodshot. We were supposed to be better than human. Turns out all we are is separate.

"Then I guess we're both mistakes." His hand moves up to my cheek, wipes away the tears. He puts a kiss where the tears were.

I've been standing on my bad leg all this time, and some blood is leaking out from under the bandages, drying on my leg and jeans. Suddenly the leg gives out. He doesn't let me fall; goes down to the ground, supporting me in his arms. I know I'm too light; I haven't been able to eat much thanks to the stress. And I've always been thin.

I sit down awkwardly, stretching my bad leg out in front of me. "I think it's bleeding again."

"Let me see," says Fang, our unofficial medic.

I bend, roll the leg of my jeans up, then realize it's too high up on my leg to expose that way, blush, and start fumbling to undo my jeans. The denim over the bandages is dark with blood.

He grabs my wrist; "There's no time." He produces a knife from somewhere up his sleeve, starts sawing away at the fabric. The denim gives way and he flips it aside; cuts through the sodden bandages. He glances at the exposed wound, then says "Just take them off."

I'm afraid, I'm tired; I take off my jeans slowly, deeply embarrassed. The only thing preserving my modesty is my long t-shirt and the same pair of briefs underwear I've been wearing for weeks. I try not to care about his hands unwinding the makeshift bandages, skimming ever closer to the bare skin.

I can read the emotion rolling off him easily; I can't see his face, but I can feel the tense set of his shoulders, the way his hands shake as he takes off the bandages and tosses them aside.

"Miranda," he says. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"It was getting better," I say. He takes off the final bandage, which is starting to scab over. I can't read any disgust from him.

"Get your belt," he says. "You thought this was just going to be okay?" I bend sideways, scrabble my jeans over towards me, take the belt out of the belt loops. I hand it to him and he gently puts it around my thigh, easing it up until it's well past the wound, nearer my hip than my knee. He threads the end into the metal piece, tightens it until it bites into my leg.

"I don't know a lot about medicine," I say timidly.

"It's not as bad as you think," he says. "I wanted to stop the bleeding so I can clean it out."

"Okay," I nod.

"It's going to hurt." He eyes me suspiciously.

"I'll be fine," I promise.

"Okay," he says. "Don't loosen that belt."

He steps off into the dark, kneels, and fishes a water bottle out of his backpack. He walks back towards me; it's the blue Nalgene.

He shakes it; "It's clean." I hope so. He kneels beside me, unscrews the top, and dips a tissue from the pack he gave me into the water. He smiles. "Try not to pass out."

I grit my teeth; he dabs cautiously around the edges, cool water dripping down my thigh. For a moment it feels fantastic, cold against the warm night; then it starts to burn on the exposed nerve endings. I should have cleaned it myself; I wouldn't have to be here. I shouldn't have gotten shot at in the first place. Why do I even have to be here?

I tilt my head back, look up at the stars. You can see the Milky Way tonight, and that reminds me of a song I haven't heard in years. I still don't know the name, but the lyrics go:

"And it's up she goes, up she goes…" I think it was in "Titanic", because it's Rose's voice singing in my head. Oh, memory is such a funny thing.

It's weirdly peaceful tonight; I can hear the Flock talking around the fire. One of them mentions my name:

"…think she's all right?"

Iggy's voice. Why?

Footsteps crunch in the leaves; Fang jerks back from my leg. It's Maximum.

"Fang," she says flatly.

He rises to his feet. "She was bleeding."

"And?" I can't even see her, but the impatience carries in her voice just fine. I know she doesn't want me here. I try to shrink into a minimally offensive ball, but then I discover that I've fallen onto my back. When was that?

"Not bad." He wrings his hands. "Might be infected."

She doesn't say a word for a moment. They all know I got nicked when Fang and I left Blue Heaven; that I'd gotten nicked again in the same leg we fought the Flyboys.

Then she kneels and lays her hand on my forehead. It's cool, and I realize that's a bad sign: avian hybrids burn hot.

"Fever."

He says nothing; looks at her. What does she intend to do?

"Think we should take her to the doctor?"

I'm about to consider letting them leave me here -- because I'm not family, why risk their freedom for me? -- and almost considering taking off my earring so I can get home fast, never mind the mission.

Then Max says, "Yeah. I guess we can risk it?"

She leans over me, looking into my face.

"You think you're okay to fly?"

"Yeah." My voice sounds tiny.

"Be ready tomorrow." She gets up, walks off. Suddenly I'm really tired. Where's Fang? Suddenly, he's not there. His silence makes a sound, and now it's really quiet.