Two years passed with fist fights and arguments with teachers in such a blur, no one thought twice when they found Milo at the center of it. He’d grown taller and stronger, and bolder, and his attention fixated on the stream of soldiers pouring in and the growing barracks formed to the wall they’d finally finished. Bethany was swarming with Resistance and Militia, drowning in them as if it were a proper base. But it wasn’t just any assortment of soldiers, it was the best. Among them was Theodore Francis Makler, the point of Milo’s greatest interest, and a man who was considered the greatest leader the Resistance had known; who’d bested the former founding leader, George Arnold Anderson-Black, in almost everything except physical stature. Unlike George, a giant of a man who had to duck to get through doors and turn sideways for his broad shoulders to fit, Makler was small. He stood at a mere five feet and three inches but had a booming voice capable of filling a stadium. He inspired his troop and struck fear into anyone who opposed him. Even George had the sense to tremble when Makler turned a dark eye his way. No one crossed him, and those who served under him had more respect for him than they did for their own mothers.

There wasn’t a single minute of training he skipped, and no matter how dangerous the battlefield was, he stood in the middle of it with his sword drawn and an angry scowl across his face like war paint. But this was no battlefield, despite how it felt as he tapped his pen in a steady rhythm with the clock scanning over the page he held pinched in his fingers, and then looked over the rim of his glasses at the boy sitting across from him. Night after night, and during the longest parts of the day, he was haunted by flashes of visions of a man he’d yet to know who stood at the edge of the end of the world. Tall, with strong features, and wavy brown hair, glinting red from the firefight of a battle below; and here was this boy, a kid, a mirror image of the man he’d seen too many times leading the charge of the last of humanity, sitting in front of him. And he was a boy, no matter what the papers claimed. His face was too round and his skin was as smooth as a baby’s bottom. The most hair on him was the mop of wavy auburn locks hanging down to his chin, tied back in a half tail as if it made him look older. It didn’t, and any idiot could see he was thirteen, fourteen at most. But he had the right look about him….

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Makler shook his head and set the paper on the desk. There was no easy way to handle these situations. There’d been too many others like him who turned out to be just ordinary kids with a grudge and wanted to prove themselves against all odds. Some simply wanted good pay and a steady roof over their heads. Everyone had their reason. Still, he didn’t know why this boy was sitting in front of him with eyes sparkling with gold flecks of sunlight as if he were before a god, or why he’d lied on his papers. It could be anything. Maybe he was an orphan, or he was trying to catch up with a dad or brother or someone else who shipped out to one of the outposts or camps in the last few years. It didn’t matter, though. He was a kid and there was no place for him in the Resistance or the local militia until he was older.

“What’s your name?” He folded his hands on the desk, leaning forward, sympathetic but stern.

“Milo,” he said, his brows pinching together. “Sir.”

“Hm.” Makler nodded. “You have a last name, Milo?”

“Stillwater.”

“Right. Milo…Stillwater.” He bobbed his head in thought. “Like the diner?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dave’s son?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hm.” Makler sat back. “Does he know you’re here?”

“No, sir.”

Waving a hand, he breathed and glanced to the window, “Drop the formalities, kid. Wouldn’t you rather be outside with your friends on a day like this? When I was a boy, at your age, I dreamed about the sort of summer we’re having and—”

“With all due respect, sir, I’m here to join the militia.” His knee bounced as he tightened his hands over his lap.

“Oh, I know.” Makler came back around, his frown deep and cutting. “I saw your application. And if you were older, I’d have you starting yesterday and fast-track you to officer by Tuesday next week. But you’re not sixteen, son. Those are the rules, and our rules are law. Keep up the hard work and I’ll see you in two years.”

Milo’s nostrils flared as he took a steadying breath. He knew there was a good chance they’d turn him away, but he didn’t think he’d sit in Makler’s office and listen to him treat him like a child. He wasn’t a child. Fourteen was anything but a child. If he could run the diner, shoot a bow better than everyone he knew, and hold his own in a sword fight, then he wasn’t some kid trying to run away from home and make a name for himself. He was capable and ready for the trials of the militia.

“Senior Captain Wes Bridget joined six months before his sixteenth birthday because he scored 860 on his exams and had an archery accuracy of 8.8 at mid-range, 7.9 at long range.” Milo’s olive green eyes lifted from beneath his brow and met Makler’s as he did his best to keep his composure. “I scored 1135 on the exams, and have an archery accuracy of 8.9 at mid-range, and 8.6 at long range. If you ask me, when the test is out of 1200 and perfect archery is a 9, the Razen would love to have me if you won’t.”

Makler snorted, grinned, and rocked back in his chair. He had to give it to him, the boy was audacious and determined. Between brains and brawn, he’d make a great soldier and a better leader if groomed properly. Maybe he was the boy he’d long been looking for, the one who’d take his place. Makler shook his head in disbelief about his own decision to throw caution to the wind and hang hope on one last kid. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this but,” he let out a breath he’d held in too long, “be at the training yards at 0400, and I’ll personally oversee your regiment. You’ll finish up by 0700 and get to school on time after. Be back at 1330, and we’ll work on tutoring you up to par with the other soldiers until 1900. Go home, rest, repeat.”

“My dad has me run the diner every Tuesday and Sunday afternoon.”

With a click of his tongue, Makler picked up the paper again and scanned over the details. “Alright, Tuesdays and Sundays, you work on the studying we give you. I’ll provide you with the material. You pass the exams every second Thursday and you stay. Days you’re not at the diner, you’re with me. Full afternoons, 1330 to 1900 hours, you’re in training.”

“Yes, sir.” Milo’s back stiffened, and excitement raced through his veins.

“Let’s make one thing very clear, though, Milo.” Makler dropped the paper on the desk and drummed his fingers, looking the boy up and down. “You’re too young to be enlisted with the militia. And you won’t be part of them. I’m mentoring you. And when you’re done with my private mentorship, you’ll be ready for a leadership career with the Resistance. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” he croaked, fighting back a smile. It was one thing to join the militia, but it was another to be part of the Resistance. They didn’t take just anyone. They only accepted the best and to train with the leader, the Commander-in-Chief, Theodore Makler, was an honor few ever had. And there he was, sitting across from him and agreeing to a mentorship. It was more than he’d hoped for when he was called into the office.

“Good,” Makler sniffed and shifted his chair, “I’ll see you at 0400, Stillwater. Bring your best.”

“Yes, sir,” he jumped up from the seat. “I will, sir. Thank you.”

He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“Sir,” Milo quickly corrected, holding his breath.

“We’ll work on that,” he waved a hand, shooing him. “Dismissed.”

Without another word, Milo spun around and headed out the door. He’d never been so excited in his entire life. Soon he’d be able to make a real difference, bring an end to the fighting, and give the world a second chance at life. He skipped down the road and hurried around the bend to the cornfield with high stalks and plump cobs. Pausing a moment to throw his head back, he laughed and dragged his hands through his hair. His whole body tingled and warmed until the smell of soldering metal rose from his skin and his natural tan complexion glowed like gold.

Whooping, he threw his hands down and hundreds of grasshoppers, moths, and butterflies flew up from the field as if cheering with him. He turned around and stared up at them. Cringing, he shoved his hands in his pockets and swallowed hard. His ability was almost impossible to hide when he was excited. Or scared. Or upset. It never seemed to work when he wanted it to and helped him at the wrong times.

He could have used it when the car broke down not long after the oil shortage hit seven or eight years ago. His mom would have been thankful for not having to make the four-mile walk home in heels while carrying Michael on her hip as he cried and whined about teething. And it would have come in handy when Kelsey accidentally got locked in the school athletic shed two years ago when it was almost one hundred degrees. But no luck. He had to break her out the old-fashioned way and served a month’s worth of detentions for breaking the door off the hinges with a fire ax.

Instead, his ability worked at random. He could hit a target across a field with his eyes shut every time, but he couldn’t turn water into wine for his friends. With a wave of his hand, the thick scent of hot metal filled his nose and his ability worked with ease. He created perfect fake IDs and applied for the militia, but making sure his family had enough food when the imports ran out a year earlier was impossible. No matter how many times he tried, he couldn’t make bread out of stones the way Lukas did. Even Michael had better control over his ability and he was a little kid. There wasn’t a toy he couldn’t fix, while Milo struggled to make his ability work on command.

With any luck, Makler wouldn’t ask if he had an ability and wouldn’t employ any whisperers or personals to find out. And he had no reason to, either. Milo wasn’t joining the militia, so he didn’t need an evaluation. And he was too young for the Resistance, too. Makler was taking him on as a personal project, a student, maybe even a protégé. Milo smiled to himself. When all the world was ending, the least he could do was dream, and hold on to the little sliver of hope that maybe things could be different. If only the gods could understand how precious their lives were, maybe they wouldn’t want to end the world.

Milo stopped at the end of the long driveway. The gods who came and wiped out the greatest militaries of the world, who were untouched when the nuclear missiles went off and made quick work of most of what remained of humanity, didn’t care and couldn’t see the value in the lives of the people they slaughtered. They were gods, after all. How could anyone expect them to understand when all they knew was what they saw? And since that was the case, Milo was determined to prove his worth and the worth of the rest of the world and stop the army they called the Razen and the gods, themselves. He wasn’t sure how he would do it, but joining the Resistance brought him one step closer. Milo knew he could make a difference. He felt it in his bones, burning and vibrating and calling him to fight. Fight for all of creation. And he would.