It's not the first ray of sunrise that wakes me up from sleep, but the noise. A low, keening sound carries through the cottage, instantly raising goosebumps along my arms. I pull Sol's handwoven blanket tighter around me, as the sound, and whatever animal made it, retreats with the night.

Sol is already awake, gathering items into a worn leather-bound pack slung across her shoulder. I sit up, the last vestiges of sleep leaving me, and along with it, the remnants of color-filled dreams.

"Praise dawn, child," Sol greets me. I stand and mumble a good morning, folding Sol's blanket neatly. Sol sets a leather satchel similar to hers on my now-made bed. It doesn't have years of use worn into it like hers; no scuffs nor smooth patina that tell stories of adventure. Her pouch could illustrate a passage of time and travel, well-used and beloved. Mine is tanned and untouched, stiff in some places. It even smells new.

I look up from the gift to find Sol studying me. It's only then that I realize I'm smiling like a fool. Sol had given me something of my very own in a place where I have nothing.

"Thank you. So much." I wish there was a way to show my gratitude in full. It's the most frustrating thing, to not know the words to express the depth of my feelings. With Markee, I'm accustomed to not having to say much to get my point across. Miles, too. My best friends have known me for most of my life, they know my struggle with words.

"This is the best gift I've ever received," I say, at a loss, but Sol seems to understand. She grins at me in a way that shows not everything needs to be said in order to be understood. When she squeezes my hand, I know she's telling me not to worry so much.

In my satchel, I find a canteen full of water, several rations of dried meat, nuts, and a flat bread. At the bottom of the bag is an object bundled in cloth. It's almost the length of my forearm.

"Hazel has breakfast in the kitchen," Sol says, walking out of the room. "It will be a long journey, so eat your fill. We will depart soon after."

I pull my hair into a ponytail as best I can with the tangles, and follow her into the humble kitchen.

After we finish eating, Hazel climbs on Sol's lap, her tiny arms circling the older woman's neck.

"Do you have to go?" Hazel whispers to her mother. Self-consciousness washes over me, witnessing a private moment between mother and daughter. I feel like an intruder once again, but in a very different way.

I occupy myself by studying my satchel with great care. The intact albeit slightly uneven stitching tells me it was sewn with Sol's slow, steady hands. The machines in Herald would have guaranteed a flawless seam, a bag perfect in every way, but something about the time spent to create a material thing makes me appreciate its existence so much more. Not only is it a tool for survival; it's art. It's the result of hours of labor to create something beautiful.

My eyes linger on the bottom corner of the pack where a design is embossed into the leather. It is a sun with rays of light fanned out in radiance. Inside the sun is what looks like a compass, its cardinal points stretching almost as far as the sun's tendrils. The whole design is about as big as my hand.

I've only seen a compass once in my lifetime. My grandfather had one. I'm transported back in time as a young girl, riding out one of the worst storms Herald has ever seen bunkered in Grandpa and Grandma's house. The electricity was the first thing to go, so we all sat in flickering candlelight, praying that the wind didn't rip the roof off. I sat on Grandpa's lap, cuddling up to the old bear as any terrified six-year old would. When he pulled the compass out of his pocket, I was rapt, my fear of the raging storm forgotten. We watched the needle spin as his weathered hands turned it this way and that.

"With a faithful compass, nothing is true as North. No matter where you are, it holds steadfast." His words wrap around me in memory, warm as the afternoon sun. "You are free to wander, little lamb, but when you are lost, find North. It will orient you, and show you the way home."

I run my fingers over the leather, smooth only where the design is imprinted. The pattern is a reminder of home. Of a life before Rhett was taken, when my family wasn't so broken.

We say goodbye to Hazel, check our packs once more, and leave the cottage as the sun is just above the horizon.

◊ ◊ ◊

Sol's village is small, but not quiet as one would expect. People are up and about despite the early morning, focused on their tasks. A woman sets fresh loaves of bread on a window sill, while her neighbor kneels in a garden, filling a basket with ripe eggplants. The day's chores have already begun for the villagers. As we walk through the village, I am elated to see more of the life outside of Herald.

Cottages similar to Sol's dot a narrow circular path three rows deep, encircling a well from which to draw water. Dispersed intermittently throughout the village are gardens well-tended. Unlike the flowerbeds in front of the houses in Herald, Outlanders grow tomatoes and cucumbers on their front lawn out of necessity. A chicken follows us down the street, pecking at the dust our feet kick up. Aside from the hen, the livestock here is small and few. Only a few families have sheep or pigs in their backyard.

The primitivity is fascinating. Without the complexities of technology or economy, its like I've time-traveled back to the distant past, before Herald was the industrialized giant it is today.

Down the path, a short, stocky man hauling water waves us down. My first instinct is to duck behind Sol, hiding from his curious eyes like a child. His attention reminds me that I do not belong here. Instead, I inspect the dirt path beneath my feet.

"So this is what all the commotion last evening was about," the man says, chuckling. The sound of his laughter makes me nervous. His approaching footsteps stop right in front of us. "Not many of you around here these days."

"For good reason," Sol says. "It is dangerous for her people outside of their wall."

"Surviving out here is not easy, especially for someone like you," the man says, not unkindly. He sets the pail of water down, some of it spilling into my vision. "Do you have a name?"

At this, my eyes leave the ground. The man is older than me, probably around Sol's age, with a round face and a weathered smile. Sol nudges me, passing silent encouragement.

"I'm Sophie." My voice is meeker than I intend it to be. Not wanting to appear a weak lamb in the den of wolves, I continue stronger, "It's nice to meet you."

The man extends his hand and grasps my wrist in a strange sort of handshake. "The pleasure is all mine. I am Rik." He turns so Sol, motioning to our packs. "Where are you headed so early?"

When Sol tells him of our destination, surprise lights his features. "I never thought you would return there," he says. I freeze. What reason would Sol have to not return to the Summus' village?

"Calm down, Rik, you're scaring the girl." Sol puts her hand on my shoulder, a comforting weight. "I just have not had a reason to make the journey in quite some time."

"Of course," Rik says, picking up the water container once again. "Better get going. Say hello to your nephew for me. He owes me a rabbit." He nods to me with a friendly grin. "I'll save a foot for you." I grimace.

With a chuckle, he lumbers back the way we came. A bit of my unease dissolves with his departure.

"What would I do with a rabbit's foot?" I ask aloud.

Sol's soft face breaks with an amused grin. "He wishes you good luck." I stare after Rik's retreating form, one more Outlander to surprise me with kindness.

Sol is quick to return to the task at hand. "We must get moving, or we will not make it for sundown."

Eager as I am, she doesn't have to tell me twice. With one look back at the friendly little village I've come to admire, we march west.