Redsand Canyon as the building continues to burn

If only Finley had picked up on Renard’s true intentions; this would have been a different conversation entirely. As it stood she assumed the worst, and so far away and down the assumption went, nestled in the sand and buried in layer upon layer of sand and metaphor and diversion. Congratulations were in order; they’d played themselves.

But ignorance was bliss. Finley’s realization about Nemisis had also crash-landed into the sand, writhing and swearing its vengeance at a more opportune moment; likewise, Finley hadn’t the slightest idea of Renard’s looming compulsion to action, and thus would continue deeming him suspect until otherwise reassured. Not as suspect as Nemisis or Donovan’s judgment, perhaps, but on the hypothetical wall nonetheless.

Some would find such games and record-keeping exhausting. It was a fact of life for Finley. Thus, even with the shifted topic, she searched for a hold—and latched on to “everyone’s miserable here.” Emphasis on the everyone. Renard sounded awfully confident; how many connections had he made? Then again, even Donovan’s panting had been noticeable from the tail end of the “meeting.” Half the wolves here, their dark coats made for the shadows, were prime targets for the sun’s wrath.

Why here? Being swifter than the average wolf among cacti and boulders was nothing if the land offered no substance.

Still. They were here, like it or not. And, with the topic in somewhat less murky waters, Finley took a chance on being direct. She had Renard’s full attention once more. “You certainly seem to know your way around the cacti.” This would be close to a confession as she was willing to stray, for now. All word games aside, she still looked ridiculous by the flora’s blessing. “Why not avoid them?” Why not barrel through the fray, all care to the wind, clinging—desperate, nigh-irrational—to the idea that some inherent strength would keep one immune?