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When Luck wakes up, Blot’s standing outside the bars of the wagon.

“Are you,” he shakes his head. “What are you doing here?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t have any more bread.”

“You pushed me away,” she says. Luck notices that she’s trembling; she looks exhausted. Her boots are too big, stolen. She must have been following the caravan for days. “With one finger and now I burn, I can’t rest until I’m near you. What did you do?”

“I didn’t,” he says. “I…” He stops, because he sees it now: on her forehead, his fingerprint, worked in new pink scar.