Snuggled up in the SpongeBob blanket, warm inside the surprisingly comfortable steel cocoon of Mary Lou’s cabin, she dozed on and off, roused only by the grinding of gears or a particularly nasty bump. The convoy wasn’t able to risk going much faster than thirty-five miles an hour on some stretches due to ice, snow and giant potholes.

Cindy French had passed the early leg of the journey talking about her family in a bit more detail. The interior of the cab was plastered with pictures of her ‘grandbabies’. Dozens of images, following the lives of five little tykes from baby blankets to sleep-outs in the back yard. And then, of course, the pictoral history stopped. From time to time, Sofia caught the trucker looking at one of them, tearing up before wiping her eyes and waving her hands to drive the sadness away. The teenager wondered if she herself might one day feel something other than a cold background rage.

Cindy had the truck’s short-wave tuned to a station playing endless loops of old comedy, all from comedians who, like her family, had not survived the Wave. It was a uniquely American type of humour, which often lay well beyond Sofia’s comprehension. Jokes about bodily functions, jokes about private sexual things, and so many jokes about the insecurities of the comedians themselves. Some were funny, but most were just embarrassing. She shuddered to think what the nuns would’ve thought of them.

She asked Cindy once, as they drove past the wreckage of a downed passenger jet, whether they could pick up any news stations.

‘We’ve got the real world all around us right now, kid,’ the truckie replied, chewing on a drinking straw. ‘Whenever I listen to the news, all I hear is “Blah, blah, blah.” Ever watched Charlie Brown, the cartoon?’

‘Yes,’ said Sofia. She’d seen a video of the cartoon dog Snoopy in the refugee camp in Sydney. It was funnier than the comedians she was forced to listen to in Cindy’s truck, that was for sure.

‘And ever noticed how all the adults sound muffled, like “Wah-wah-wah”? Well, that’s what the news is like for me. Can’t stand it. Wah-wah-wah.’

Okay. No news, Sofia thought. A pity. She was hoping to start building up her knowledge of life in Texas under Blackstone, especially within the limits of Fort Hood. She knew from listening to the news in Kansas City that you couldn’t always trust the radio to tell you the truth about things. Or about the details, anyway, and the meaning behind those details. But even the broad outlines could be useful to know.

She craned her neck to follow the flight path of a pair of gunships that hammered overhead as afternoon settled across the bleak Oklahoma landscape. They surprised her, completely unexpected. Cindy hit her horn three times, snapped off the short-wave and turned on her CB. ‘Ardmore, coming up. We stopping?’