The First Glader

6

The next weeks settled into a rhythm that surprised her.

Work.
Food.
Check the lake.
Check the animals.
Scan the Maze.
Repeat.

Only now there were two of them moving through that pattern instead of one.

Nick picked up the tasks quickly. He wasn't strong yet—not the way he would be after months of manual labor—but he learned faster than she expected. He watched how she tied knots, then tied better ones. He studied how she chose which trees to cut for planks, then anticipated which branches she'd want before she said anything.

He didn't complain much. When he did, it was with a kind of resigned humor, like he knew complaining didn't change the work but made it less lonely.

"This is ridiculous," he groaned one afternoon, bracing a log against his shoulder as Ada hammered. Sweat dripped down his temple. "You know we're basically cavemen, right? Somewhere out there there's probably a microwave. And video games. And couches."

Ada set a nail with a careful tap. "If you remember what a microwave is, you're ahead of me."

He paused. "You don't?"

She straightened slowly, frowning faintly. "I remember the word. Not what it looks like. Not where it belongs. Just... that it exists. Somewhere."

Nick considered that. "Okay, so our brains are like... swiss cheese. Random holes."

"Swiss what?"

He grinned weakly. "Never mind."

She rolled her eyes and lifted the hammer again. The motion tugged at her wound, sending a sharp spike of pain up her arm. She clenched her jaw and kept going.

Nick noticed that too.

"Hey," he said. "Stop."

She ignored him.

"Ada."

His voice had a note in it she hadn't heard from him before. Firm. Not demanding, but steady.

She lowered the hammer, breathing hard. "We need the roof solid," she said. "If the wind picks up—"

"I know," he said. "But you're bleeding through your bandage again."

She glanced down. Dark spots had blossomed through the fabric. Annoyance flared—at her body, not at him. "It's fine."

"It's not." He stepped closer. "Let me take over."

"You can't hammer with your arms half-dead."

"They're not half—okay, maybe a third," he said. "Still better than you tearing your arm open more. You did all this before I got here. Let me do my part now."

The words stopped her.

Let me do my part.

He wasn't trying to take control. He wasn't doubting her. He was asking to carry some of what she'd been carrying alone.

She looked at him, at his unsteady but earnest posture, at the way his hands shook only a little when he reached for the hammer.

Slowly, she stepped back and let him.

Nick took the hammer, set the next nail, and started pounding it in. He missed once and swore under his breath, then adjusted his hold and tried again. The rhythm was clumsy, but it held.

Ada retreated to the ground, sitting with her back against a tree. She unwound the bandage carefully, hissing when the fabric tore away from the dried blood.

The gash across her bicep was ugly—swollen, red at the edges, crusted at parts, oozing slightly in others. She cleaned it with boiled water cooled to just above lukewarm, biting the inside of her cheek until the taste of iron filled her mouth.