Chapter 2 Leena
LEENA
The problem with supplies isn’t what we have. It’s what we can carry.
I brace the clipboard against my forearm as a gust of hot wind drags sand across the loading ground, rattling the edges of the stacked crates and half-secured bundles. Someone swears behind me as a tarp snaps loose and is wrestled back into place.
“Not that one,” I say without looking up. “That stays.”
“It’s dried meat,” a human voice argues immediately. “We can’t leave food behind.”
I slide my finger down the column of numbers scratched across the page—weights, counts, notations I’ve already rewritten twice because people keep trying to change things after they’re set.
“We’re not leaving food,” I say, still calm. “We’re leaving excess weight. There’s a difference.”
There’s always a difference. No one ever likes it.
I look up then, just long enough to meet his eyes. He’s tired. They all are. Dust clings to his skin, his clothes, the lines of his face. It makes everyone look older. Worn down in ways sleep doesn’t fix.
“If we overload the carriers,” I continue, “they don’t make the dunes. If they don’t make the dunes, none of this matters.” I tap the edge of the clipboard once. Final. “Put it back.”
He hesitates. Then his jaw tightens and he turns, tossing the bundle back toward the marked pile with more force than necessary. It lands with a dull thud. Not the first. It won’t be the last.
I shift my attention before the frustration can settle anywhere useful.
The staging ground stretches out in uneven lines—wagons, sled platforms, anything we could salvage or build to survive the crossing. Zmaj stand near the heavier loads, lifting what no human could manage, their movements efficient, controlled. They waste nothing. Not energy. Not time.
The Urr’ki move differently.
Faster in short bursts. Less concerned with neat stacks or balance, more focused on getting things moved at all. They adjust constantly—shift, carry, drop, reconfigure. It works, in its own way. Until it doesn’t.
“Stop.”
I step forward before the crate tips any further, one hand coming out automatically to steady it. An Urr’ki has already half-lifted the opposite side, trying to wedge it into a space that isn’t there.
“It doesn’t fit,” I say.
“It will,” he insists, already angling it again. “Weight distribution can be corrected later.”
“Later is when it breaks,” I counter, “and then we lose everything under it.”
He pauses, head tilting in that way they have when they’re recalculating. His grip tightens slightly on the crate. I don’t pull back.
“We fix it now,” I say, meeting his gaze. “Or we carry it ourselves when it fails.”
A beat. Then he exhales sharply through his teeth and sets it down. Not agreement. Acceptance.
I make a note on the clipboard without looking away from the stack. Rebalance left side. Reduce load by ten percent. Everything is trade-offs. Everything.
A shadow shifts at my right, larger, cooler.
One of the Zmaj steps closer—not crowding, not pushing, just there. His presence changes the space without effort. People adjust around it instinctively, giving him room even when they don’t realize they’re doing it.
“You are reducing too much,” he says, voice low, controlled.
“I’m reducing enough,” I reply.
“The crossing will be faster if we move with full supplies.”
“It will be shorter,” I correct. “Not faster.”
His gaze drops briefly to the clipboard, then back to me.
“You assume loss.”
“I plan for it.”
The words come easily because I’ve said them too many times before. He studies me for a moment longer, then inclines his head slightly. Not necessarily agreement, but respect. I’ll take it.
“Then we adjust the guard positions instead,” he says.
“Already did,” I answer, tapping the lower section of the page. “You’re rotating in pairs on the outer line. No single coverage.”
That gets a flicker of approval. Small. But there.
He steps back, not leaving, just shifting position as his attention moves to the next problem. There’s always a next problem.
I move with the flow of it, stepping between stacks, checking bindings, correcting placements, redirecting hands before mistakes become losses. This is the work. Not deciding what we have. Deciding what survives the journey.
Voices rise somewhere to my left, not shouting, yet. But close. I listen first before turning. Too many voices at once. Overlapping. Human tones layered over the sharper cadence of the Urr’ki, grounded by the lower, steadier presence of the Zmaj.
All three. Great.
I shift that way, sliding the clipboard under my arm so I can free a hand if I need it.
“—not leaving it,” someone is saying as I approach. “It took three days to process—”
“And it will take one break to lose everything beneath it,” another cuts in.
“It’s necessary.”
“It’s weight.”
“It’s survival.”
“It’s risk.”
The words stack the same way the supplies do. Too much in one place. Not enough balance. I step into the edge of the group, letting my presence register before I speak. It doesn’t take long.
“Show me,” I say.
The argument shifts immediately, all of them turning toward me at once. Hands move. Voices redirect. Everyone suddenly certain they’re right.
I glance down as one of them pushes a container toward me, my fingers already flipping to the correct section of the list.
“Not on the manifest,” I say.
“It should be,” the human insists.
“It’s not.”
“It’s essential.”
“So is everything else you’re asking me to cut,” I reply.
The Urr’ki leans in, closer than the others, pointing at the container with a sharp, decisive motion.
“It increases survival probability.”
“So does not collapsing a load halfway through the dunes,” I counter without looking up.
Another voice cuts in from behind me. A Zmaj this time, closer than before.
“The risk can be mitigated.”
“Not with what we have,” I say.
The space tightens. Not dramatically. Not all at once. But enough.
Bodies shift closer. Angles change. Everyone trying to be heard. To be seen. To make their point matter more than the others.
I feel it before I fully register it. The narrowing. The lack of space between them. Between me. I keep my tone even.
“Step back,” I say without raising my voice.
No one moves. Of course they don’t. They’re not thinking about space. They’re thinking about being right.
A clawing sense of claustrophobia rises, making my skin crawl. I adjust my grip on the clipboard, turning slightly so I can see all of them without having to shift position.
“Step back,” I repeat, my voice just as calm.
One of the humans leans in, pointing at the page.
“You’re not accounting for—”
A hand catches my wrist. Not rough. Not aggressive. Insistent.
“Look,” he says, trying to angle the clipboard toward himself.
The space closes another inch. Zmaj shift behind me. Urr’ki step in from the side. Voices overlap. Movement tightens. Everything is too close.
I inhale sharply. Control. I have this. I cannot let my emotions take over.
“Let go,” I say, my voice steady.
No one hears it. Or they do, and it doesn’t matter. I tighten my grip on the board, preparing to pull it back, to reset the space, to—
The sand shifts.