My brain is buzzing after the meeting in the recreation room, so I have to rest before I find Isaiah. But in the morning, I track him down in the warden’s office, where he spends most of his time these days. He’s even brought his breakfast here.

  He goes online when I ask, and I pass him notes I prepared ahead of time, the writing marred by the trembling of my hands. I sit by his side and watch him search and figure it out. It takes the better part of an hour for a single page to load, while the connection keeps disappearing and rebooting.

  Isaiah opens his own notebook and writes down any details he finds. Of still-rising death tolls and ghost cities. Of states in disarray and people going hungry. Of food supply lines and production grinding to a halt. Watching Isaiah work, I realize with certainty that no one is coming for us. Everyone is too busy trying to make the best of a terrible situation.

  And aside from making our own version of a cast, there is very little we can do to make Emerson’s life better. Fractured wrists have no easy solutions. Unless it’s a very clean break, Emerson will be cooped up for at least six weeks.

  Isaiah frowns. He pushes papers back and forth as rhythmically as when I tap my fingers against my leg. “We could all be dead in six weeks.”

  I try not to think about that.

  Then it occurs to me—Emerson might need other things. Painkillers. Distractions. Better food than we have available. Grace and Sofia went out hunting again early this morning, but we can only survive on raccoon for so long.

  I wait until after preparing lunch—with all of us sitting around three tables now, and Emerson sitting next to Casey out of habit. Until after clearing the plates and washing the dishes.

  And then I walk out.

  All casually, like Leah once told me. Pretend to know what you’re doing, and people will let you go about your business, she said, the first time she stole food and pads for us.

  I keep my head high. I wrap myself in one of our work coats, though the weather is soft and gentle. I pick up an abandoned backpack from the guard station. I use a scarf as a face mask. And I walk like I know what I’m doing. Like I know where I’m going.

  I do. One step at a time. I remember the way from our unfortunate nighttime walk. I remember the way from the guards driving us here in the first place. It’s one of the upsides of the way my brain works. I understand how patterns work, and I can remember them.

  So I keep walking. One step and then another.

  When I’m out of reach of Hope, and no one has come to take me back, I drop my shoulders and lower my head, and I look down at my feet. At the ground, covered in orange and red and brown leaves.

  Hope may seem silent at times, especially now that it’s so much emptier, but it’s nothing compared to the stillness outside. It’s not completely desolate. The wind rustles through the trees, and the foliage on the ground crunches and whispers. I know absolutely nothing about birds, but I can make out three or four different calls.

  Still, there are no voices, no footsteps—and especially no one who’s coughing.

  I can breathe here. I feel at ease here.

  And I keep walking. One foot in front of the other.

  “This may be the only way in which we’ve ever been different,” I tell the Leah in my head, the Leah I’m always talking to. “You always hated the outdoors, and I loved it. I like how the leaves and the grass bounce beneath my feet. I like the breeze on my skin. I could grow to like the quiet too. It reminds me of me.”

  Leah would laugh at that. I miss hearing her laugh. No matter how bad things were, that always made me feel like everything would be all right.

  I reach the corner in the road that leads to the mountain path and the roadblock. I heard whispers last night that the soldiers are gone and Josie and Saoirse hid out here in a tent or a cave or something.

  When I near the roadblock, I find nothing there but the empty corpse of a truck. The rough patch of road is overgrown with weeds and grass, and the wheels are completely flat. I crawl a little closer. A dark shadow rises from the canvas cover, and I scramble back.

  Two large birds take flight from their comfortable hideout.

  I push myself to my feet again and wait to see if I disturb anything else. If I can see any movement. Then I do what every sensible person would do in my situation. I take a deep breath and run past the truck with all the speed I have, and I don’t look back.

  I have to keep going. One step at a time. For Leah. For Emerson. For myself.

  One step. Another. And another. And another.

  Along the mountain trail, past the red trees and the yellow trees and the orange trees and the stubborn green ones.

  On.

  * * *

  I reach the outskirts of Sam’s Throne by late afternoon. A small town with exactly one post office, one convenience store, and an elementary school—or at least, that’s what I remember from when Leah and I were transferred into the care of one of Hope’s guards here.

  We weren’t even supposed to come to Hope, but our court-appointed lawyer—like Hunter—was obsessed with my special needs. She argued that I couldn’t and shouldn’t be held responsible for what Leah did. That it would be better for me to go to some kind of care facility.

  I tried to explain to her that she didn’t understand me. My needs aren’t any more special than anyone else’s are. I want my sister and a roof over my head and to not go hungry. I don’t want to be scared. I do want to be loved. I want to live long enough to be an old cat lady, like Granddad’s friend down the street.

  Leah snapped, like she had only done a few times before.

  By the time we settled things, we were here, together. It felt lucky, then.

  I don’t know if it still feels lucky now.

  Dashing from one street corner to the next, I sneak my way to the town center. When we were transferred through here, Sam’s Throne certainly looked a lot more alive. People wandered the street to buy their groceries, to pick up their mail, to take their kids to school. An elderly man walking his dog passed us by and muttered something about kids these days.

  It doesn’t look like that anymore. All the doors are closed, the windows are curtained. The main street—or whatever passes for that here—is utterly abandoned. The few parked cars have gathered dirt and dust. It looks like a scene from an old Western. All it needs is a tumbleweed or an old newspaper flailing in the wind.

  Scarce lights peek out from behind some of the curtains as the sun goes down, and there are barking dogs behind some front doors. I wonder if that means anyone’s still alive—or the exact opposite.

  Several of the doors have stripes of white paint of them. Or markings drawn in chalk.

  Plague crosses.

  Other homes have candles in front of the windows, along with flowers. Children’s drawings of rainbows, stuck to the glass for the whole world to see.

  The elementary school has lights on inside, without curtains to block my view. The classrooms aren’t filled with desks and chairs but with stretchers and people coughing and people under blankets and people under sheets. The front entrance is obscured by large military tents.

  I keep my head down and walk farther. One step. Another.

  I’m drawn to the building like a moth to a flame, but I force myself to keep to the shadows. I don’t want to get caught. Would anything have been different if Leah and I had gone somewhere else? If we’d been separated?

  I don’t know, and I won’t ever find out. I have to keep my focus on the solution, as Granddad would say. Figure it out, kid. That’s all we can do.

  So I walk until I find the small convenience store. The windows are boarded up. I don’t look around me to see if anyone’s on the main street. I dash toward the door, which swings on its hinges. A bell jingles when I push forward. Get in. To safety.

  Run.

  This is what would help Emerson: better painkillers. This is what would help all of us: food, whatever I can carry. Whatever is left.

  The shelves of the store are almost empty. Some of them have toppled over to make a mess in the aisles. There is no toilet paper and not a lot of food left. Bottles of juice and beer have shattered on the floor, making a sticky, disgusting mess. The built-in coolers are open and empty. The little produce that’s here has rotted through and probably attracted pests, but I try to ignore that and go aisle by aisle to figure out what I need.

  I stuff pads and Band-Aids and a few bottles of painkillers in my pockets. A small bottle of hand sanitizer that’s been opened and used, but it isn’t entirely empty yet. I wish stores carried the antibiotics Casey told us about, the ones that could maybe help with the plague, but I wouldn’t even know what to look for.

  I swing the backpack off my shoulder and shove in all the over-the-counter drugs I can find. I move to another aisle and add anything that seems useful, in the small quantities that are still here. Shampoo and soap bars. Toothpaste in small traveling packs. A single box of cereal, half-open—but it’s still food. A jar of peanut butter. I stand on tiptoe and tease a chocolate bar from the farthest edges of the shelf and a granola bar as well. Herbs and spices that no one wanted to take, for whatever reason. A spilled bag of rice. I scoop up what I can and seal it into the bag.

  And then I see it. Underneath a toppled over shelf, all rolled into a corner out of sight, almost a dozen cans of food. Some of them are busted open, but most look salvageable.

  I cling to my backpack and drop to my knees.

  I reach for them, and I nearly sob in relief when my fingers manage to curl around the cans. This may not keep us fed for weeks, but I have canned meat and vegetables. It will help us restock what we’ve already eaten.

  I push all the cans into my backpack until it’s so full, it might burst at the seams, and something to my right crunches.

  A soft click. The unmistakable sound of the safety being disengaged on a gun.

  I slowly turn my head and stare right down the barrel. A bulky man wearing a face mask over his nose and mouth glares at me. His bushy eyebrows have almost grown together, and underneath his blue cap, his hair is peaky blond. He wears a stained fleece shirt. “Looks like I’ve caught myself a rat. Hands where I can see them. Do not come any closer. Tell me exactly who you are and what you’re doing here.”

  Some problems call for drastic solutions, Granddad said. But I have no idea how to solve this.

  I shake my head.

  “Filthy thief.” The man leans toward me, though he still keeps a careful distance between us. He doesn’t have to come closer to be threatening. “Kick your backpack over here, then we’ll figure out what to do with you.”

  Twenty-three

  Grace

  Fuck.

  I don’t know how to help Logan without endangering myself. I saw her walk out, so I followed her. I wanted to make sure she wouldn’t do anything irrational. Anything like this. Why can’t any of them just follow my rules?

  I don’t want to make the situation any more explosive than it already is.

  I need something I can use as a weapon—or a distraction. If we can get out of here, I doubt the guy will follow us. Or maybe he will? The soldiers shot on sight without hesitation. What is to say it won’t be any different for him?

  If there’s anything I’ve learned these past few weeks, it’s this: fear does strange things to people. In some ways, it’s more dangerous than anger.

  I need a weapon.

  “Speak up, girl! Hurry with that backpack!” The store guy’s voice has a ragged edge to it, and he coughs behind his mask.

  Logan’s response is immediate, instinctual. She pushes herself back farther against the shelves. She’s trembling. Her hands reach for purchase or something to shield herself with. A can of beans rolls away from her.

  The guy scoffs. “It’s just a cough, girl. The only thing that bloody plague left me.”

  As soon as the words leave his mouth, a shiver curls up my spine. I breathe out hard. By the way Logan’s eyes widen, I can see she heard it too. He had the plague—and he survived it? How is that possible? Everyone we know who’s had it died or is lingering with long-term effects. Is there a cure? A way to heal people?

  Logan opens her mouth behind her own face covering, but she can’t say whatever she wants to say. She balls her fists, and the pure frustration that courses through her is almost tangible.

  “One step at a time,” he growls. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Logan still hasn’t moved.

  The guy uses the gun to beckon her. “Come on, now. Don’t think for a moment I won’t shoot.”

  Here’s the thing though, I don’t think he will. With every second that crawls by, their standoff lengthens, and he does nothing but threaten. If he wanted to shoot her, he would have done so already—right? He’s threatening her to get his way. The gun may not even have bullets in it.

  Maybe we can make it through this after all.

  The mere thought of it leaves me dizzy. I’d nearly given up on the idea of a future, but this makes it sound possible. Tangible. If we can make it through, I want all of us to survive. I’ll hold our entire small family together by my fingernails if I have to.

  Before the rational side of my brain can stop me, I dash forward, past the guy with the gun, in Logan’s direction. The doorbell jingles when I cross the threshold.

  “Mia! There you are!” I try to communicate to her with my eyebrows that she should play along. Her eyes are wide with terror.

  I half turn to face the guy, who has a quizzical look on his face. “Oh my goodness, I’m so glad you found her!” I lay it on thick. All the charm that doesn’t come naturally. All the innocence I lost two years ago. “Thank you. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  I get to my feet again, so I can effectively block Logan from view—and from the line of his gun. I raise my hands in an excessive shrug, like I’m apologizing for her. “My sister is special. She’s meant to stay home with me and our aunt, but our aunt got sick, and I lost sight of Mia. She went wandering. I think she wanted to find some food for us, because you know how it goes. We don’t have much. If our aunt’s illness is”—I drop my voice but continue to ramble—“If it’s the plague, we’ll have nowhere to go. I think she was worried that there wouldn’t be any food left. We’ve been hungry before and she doesn’t understand it.”

  At my barrage of words, the guy slowly starts lowering his gun. I hope we look harmless to him. Two white girls, underfed and fearful. We wouldn’t hurt a fly, right? I hope he isn’t the type of guy who knows everyone in a small town.

  I reach out behind me to give Logan a hand up. She clings to me with one hand and to her backpack with the other. Her expression is one of determination and hurt.

  “We promise we don’t want to be difficult. She definitely didn’t mean to steal. She just…” I wince like I’m uncomfortable. I lean toward the guy again, like I’m letting him in on a secret. Logan squeezes my hand. “She doesn’t understand the difference. She doesn’t mean any harm, but she’s been so scared. We all are. And I’m so glad that you found her and she’s safe. I wouldn’t know what to do if she fell ill too.”

  The guy opens his mouth and closes it. The way his eyes dart back and forth now, he’s deciding we’re far more trouble than we’re worth. But he’s still holding on to the gun, and he’s still dangerous.

  In the silence that follows, Logan coughs. It sounds so natural, so real, that even I freeze up. The guy does the same. He takes a step back, despite his claim that he’s already survived the plague.

  “Mia! Are you okay?” I swing to her, like the worried older sister that I pretend to be. I reach out a hand to touch her face—though I don’t quite get close enough to do so, because it would make her uncomfortable. Out of eyesight from the guy, though with a shadow in her eyes, Logan very slowly and very purposefully winks.

  “I don’t know what game you’re playing”—the guy clears his throat—“but I want no part of it. Get out. Get out of here. Don’t let me see you do this again.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir,” I gush. “Thank you.”

  Logan coughs again, and he takes another step back, opening enough of an escape route for the two of us. And we run. I grab Logan’s arm and pull her along with me. She’s still holding on to the backpack, and when the guy notices that, he roars. “Leave the backpack! Thieves!”

  “Sorry!” I shout, feeling weirdly giddy. “I wasn’t lying about the food!”

  We dash out of the store, dodging rubble and shelves and torn boxes. Logan lets go of my hand, and she swings the backpack on her back. She’s quick, and she motions for me to follow her. It’s our speed that saves us, I’m sure. It takes the store guy a second or three to realize what’s happening, and by the time he’s screaming at us, we’re already halfway through the door.

  From there, Logan takes the lead. She guides us away from the store and into a narrow side road, so even if the guy follows us, we won’t be in his immediate line of sight.

  Another corner, another side road. Past half a dozen homes with white marks on their front doors. Past a church where light is burning inside and the lawn is covered in tiny wooden crosses. Some with colored yarn or fabric knotted around them, others with necklaces and bracelets draped over them, still others that are painted in bright colors—even if the painting seems childish at times. Another road. All the way until we’re deep in a residential area and I’m the one to call for a halt. “Logan! Give me a moment to catch my breath.”

  She skitters to a halt, but she keeps glancing around us like she expects someone else to get the jump on us. I rest my hands on my knees and struggle to catch my breath.

  Logan pulls at my sleeve and indicates her head.

  “I know.” I gulp a breath. “We have to keep going. How come you’re in better shape than I am, anyway?”

  She grins, and the backpack bounces on her shoulders.

 

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