I spring after him. Even though he seems different than the Outlanders who attacked my home and took Markee, I don't exactly want to test my luck. But he might be able to help me find Markee. And by the way things are looking, he may be my only option.

"Wait, please," I call softly. I hate the slight tremble to my voice, a mix of fear and desperation. He warned me to be careful, and didn't harm me in any way, but the manner in which he holds himself exudes power. It makes me wonder what it stems from. He could probably take down at least half of those Outlanders by himself. Needless to say, he frightens me.

But he hears me, nonetheless, and stops once more. Annoyance is clear in his movement as he swings around to face me.

"I'm looking for my friend," I begin. I don't want to sound as unglued as I feel. How do I explain to a stranger my lone presence in the middle of the nowhere? I can't just say, "Hey, your people stole my friend, now give her back."

Or can I?

"She was taken," I settle for, hoping he knows what I'm talking about, and where to find her.

But I expect too much.

He crosses his arms. "What makes you think I know where she is?"

Okay, he doesn't have to be so sassy. I already know he wasn't with the Outlanders who broke into Herald. I thought that maybe he would have heard them tramping through the forest on their way to or from Herald and know which way they went. And if he didn't, maybe someone out here told him where they were headed. Or maybe he won't be as much help as I had hoped, and I'm only wasting time.

Then I realize that life must be vastly different out here. I'm so used to everyone being in each other's business in Herald. We grow up knowing someone who knows someone, so we're all connected. The familiarity of our neighbors, the farmers across town, the workers in city hall. Nothing is new, and as that may be boring to some, it's comfort to others. Safety. To us, Outlanders are literally outsiders--and not just because of the wall that separates us. I've noticed the little differences between this Outlander and I. The unrefined cloth that makes up his attire, versus my evenly-stitched clothing. The lack of communication in the Outlands compared to the widespread information through Herald. The inaccuracy of history textbooks widens the gap between us further. All we know about the Outlanders are in those texts, and so far, my experience has caused nothing but doubt and confusion to take root in me. I don't know what to expect anymore.

I once again ask myself why no one has gone into the Outlands to seek peaceful relations. At the very least, why not learn as much about the enemy as possible? I wonder how far a little understanding can go. Especially if not all of the Outlanders are savage, but somewhat civil, like the man in front of me.

How else are these people different from us? The entire systemized community is abandoned outside of Herald. It's a wonder how we speak the same language. My mind whirls with so many questions for my new acquaintance. Is there a government system here? Are the Outlands so vast that there are people who can escape the word of mouth?

What else were we wrong about?

I'm shaken of out my thoughts when Mr. Sassypants shifts abruptly. He whirls, his gaze searching the forest. He uncrosses his arms, and one of his hands rests on something attached to his hip.

I don't know what's captured his attention, but it can't be anything good judging by the way his shoulders stiffen.

His sharp green eyes snap to me and I flinch.

"There's a village not half a league from here," he says, pointing towards the setting sun. The direction I've been headed all along. "Someone there might have the time and patience to aid you." He swings his eyes back to the woods, dismissing me, and pulls a knife from his hip. My skin crawls at the sight of the slick metal.

"I advise you to arrive there before sundown." He takes a step toward the trees, but halts before the branches engulf him. "Be careful."

And with that, he stalks into the forest, his face a mask of steel. Cold and hard. A hunter after his prey.

I can't help but be perplexed by his actions. It was clear that he wasn't going to hurt me, despite what I initially thought. But if he didn't have the time or patience, then why did he stop to help me? I wasn't a waste of his time earlier when he saved me from being discovered. He probably only tried to shut me up to benefit him, to save himself from being found by the horde.

But then why did he warn me to be careful?

I decide to follow his example and push the rude man out of my mind. I no longer wish to waste any more time on him. I got what I needed and now I'll be on my way. Besides, it's not likely I'll ever see the stranger again.

Now that I have a lead, my purpose is renewed. Markee certainly isn't a waste of time, and I need to get to her as soon as possible. I never planned to stay in the Outlands overnight, but I won't go back until I've found Markee. I never planned on any of this. No one--not even Markee--would have thought me capable of accomplishing what I've done. Leaving the all-but-guaranteed safety of Herald, trekking across the wall and into the Outlands, and even getting help from one of its inhabitants. She won't believe what I've done when I tell her.

The feeling of determination is a liberating one. The energy humming through me spurs my weary legs into action. Even my parched throat is forgotten as I journey toward the setting sun, each footfall bringing me nearer to the village that I hope will contain Markee.

It takes me a little over half an hour before I smell wood smoke permeating the air. The sun is dipping below the horizon, and I take a breath of relief knowing I won't have to spend the night alone in the dark. I just hope the people in this village are as nondiscriminatory as the Outlander I encountered earlier was. If they're combative like the Outlanders who infiltrated Herald, I'm as good as dead.

But surely the stranger wouldn't have sent me straight into the lion's den, would he? After frittering away his precious time on me?

More than anything I've encountered so far in the Outlands, the hardest part of being in a foreign place is deciding what, and who, to put my trust in. The Outlander's word that there was a village nearby proved to be true. But will its inhabitants really help me? I want to believe him, but how do I know that it isn't a trap? And it doesn't help that he's the only source of information I have. How am I supposed to make a knowledgeable course of action? I'm ignorant to how the world out here works. I never knew, or really gave much thought to, what else was beyond the wall other than what we were taught. For me it was black and white: Herald was good, and the Outlands were bad. Now everything is unexpectedly grayscale, and it's all his fault.

I stop walking and duck behind a thick bush just at the edge of a clearing. Just ahead, I make out the distinctive shapes of buildings. Through the dim hazy light of the setting sun filtering through the trees, I see them standing throughout the clearing haphazardly. They look sturdy enough, being made of wood and some mud-colored brick, complete with a thatch roof. Drifting among the structures are dozens of people. I'm close enough to hear their voices as they call to one another, but too far to make out what they're saying. They are clad in the same type of clothing as the Outlander horde. The likeness in attire and numbers causes a wariness to overcome me.

Suddenly, I don't know what to do next. I can't just waltz in and ask the first person I see if they know anything about Markee. Is there some type of leader-figure here I have to talk to? A council to meet with, like in Herald?

I silently curse the stars for giving me no other options.

I deliberate at the edge of the clearing, trying to formulate a tactic when a small pair of hands push aside the cluster of fronds that have been hiding me from sight. I scramble back, away from the young girl, about ten years old, standing before me. Her jaw is slack with surprise that matches mine and her doe-eyes are round as she analyzes me. She breaks eye contact to inspect my attire, then her gaze snaps back to my eyes. I feel the need to explain my presence here, to clarify why I was spying on her village, but the words lodge in my throat, my tongue swollen and throat weak. I don't even have time to gather my thoughts before she spins on her heel and races for the compound.

I imagine the uproar being discovered this way will cause. I have visions of savage Outlanders coming after me, searching the woods with knives and pitchforks. A warrant for death.

I can't let the girl declare me an intruder. I have to present myself as I am, an emigrant looking for help, and not a danger to this community. So I step clear of the treeline and follow the girl into the throng of civilians. If you could call them that; they are each garbed in simple stitching, and some carry packs made of an animal's hide. Their entire culture seems unrefined and unsophisticated, from makeshift houses to unpaved streets. At least their hair is washed and as far as I can smell, they bathe.

I am noticed immediately. Heads turn and people stop in their conversations, pausing only long enough to begin whispering amongst one another. Tasks are abandoned as I stride through the village. My neck and face flush scarlet and I shrink under their scrutiny. I want to become invisible, or to blend in so I become unnoticed. I feel every eye piercing me, a hot iron brand on every part of my body. I don't return their stares. I keep my eyes locked onto the girl's tawny head, bobbing as she runs on twig-like legs.

I have never liked attention. Not the kind Markee thrives in, the all-eyes-on-me type in which you become the object of the masses. I've always preferred the one-on-one kind, attention down to an individual level. An interpersonal understanding. Something that means something other than blindsided popularity.

And that is definitely not the kind of attention I'm getting right now. There is no understanding in the way these people are ogling me. I doubt there is any desire to. The blood rushing in my reddened ears block out the whispers. My heart feels like it's going to beat right out of my chest, and it's not because of the hike I took to get here.

The girl dashes into a house that looks like all the others, unpainted wooden door slamming behind her. I pause outside, not sure if I should knock, or follow her in immediately. I know I'm an intruder, showing up unannounced, but I don't want to do anything to cause bedlam any more than I have already. I'm terrified, knowing I've already started off on the wrong foot.

Gathering the tiniest bit of nerve I have left in me, I raise my fist to knock on the rough-cut wood of the door, just as it opens.