"Right," Tom said, rolling to his feet and pretending like that hadn't even crossed his mind. They were still revolutionaries, Tom was still a figure head for a fucked war, and every person they cared about was a target. Everyone they cared about was as good as dead.

"I don't think they'll send him out too far," he muttered. His mouth twisted in an ugly line and he moved to the fire, crouching down to bury the ashes. "I don't think they're going to try and hawk him to a farmer for field work."

Not with a face and a body and an attitude like Neil's.