The tree took longer to plant than I expected.

Not because the soil was hard—Elijah had chosen the spot carefully, a south-facing slope where the earth was looser and the canopy broke just enough to let light through—but because my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I told myself it was the chill, the unfamiliar openness after weeks underground, but that was a lie. It was the fear of being seen while standing still.

Marga knelt beside the hole, dirt smudged on her knees, utterly content. She ...