TRACKING STERLINGThe dirt under my fingernails was cold. I sat there, clutching my own arms, watching the spot where Demetrius had vanished into the gray haze. My heart felt like it had gone with him. Every time a loud crack echoed from the valley—a gunshot or a falling tree—my breath hitched.

"He’s going to be okay, Esme."

I turned my head. Sarah was kneeling beside me, wiping blood off her forehead with a damp cloth. She looked exhausted, her eyes rimmed with red, but she was trying to ...