I wake with dust in my mouth again. Bitter, dry, metallic-like I've been

chewing rust. The wind must've kicked in last night while we slept. It

always finds a way in, no matter how tightly we seal the crates. I spit into

the corner and roll over.

Gray.

Everything is gray.

The metal walls of our shelter groan like they're mourning the sun. Outside,

it's probably another dead-skied morning-where clouds hang like bruises

and the wind smells like ash. The Regime calls it "Atmospheric Stability."

Toma calls it "a slow death."

I call it home.

"Reya," he mutters beside me, his voice muffled under an old army tarp.

"You're grinding your teeth again."

"I wasn't asleep," I whisper.

A beat. Then his head pokes out, copper hair sticking up like a flame. "That's

worse."

We sit in silence. It's not peaceful. Not really. Silence is dangerous in the

Dustlands. It means someone's listening. Or someone died.

Toma stretches and tosses me a piece of salvaged tech-a busted comm

chip from the northern zones. "Found this near the silo wreckage. Could

still have intel on it. Maybe coordinates."

"Or it could blow off your hand next time," I say.

He grins. "Then I'll be half the burden."

I want to laugh. I almost do. But the weight in my chest doesn't move. It's

there every morning-like something's watching. Waiting. Like the silence

is alive.

"Did you hear anything last night?" I ask.

Toma tilts his head. starvation?"

"You mean, besides your stomach fighting off

I shake my head. "No. Something... else. Like a whisper."

He pauses. His eyes sharpen. "You're serious?"

"I think it said my name."

Outside, a Regime drone hums past-low and slow like a predator sniffing

the dirt. We freeze. We always do. The hum fades into the distance,

swallowed by the wind.

He exhales. "You're dreaming again."