There were rules at school. Rules for where to walk. Rules for what to eat, or not eat. Rules for sitting still. Rules for games in the courtyard. Rules for rainy days. But above all, rules about touching anything that grew outside the farming halls.

The entire row of radishes lay withered on the dirt, their leaves dry as paper. Moma crouched down to get a better look, hoping there would be some sign of hope at their centers. Her knees might complain, but they’d served her well over the years and still had some life to them yet.

That night they gathered in Kaila’s house. It was the first time in Moma’s memory the whole village fit inside one house. They’d brought a few chairs in from the empty house next door, as no one needed those anymore.

Moma packed a hiking bag one of the visitors had left behind years ago. The battery for the rain veil no longer worked, but it hadn’t rained in so long, she didn’t think it mattered. The bag was weighed down with a tent, bedding, a change of clothes, and an old, battered guide to edible plants.