They set off again as the trucks rumbled away down the street, belching dark smoke from their exhausts.

‘You might be right. But thank you,’ said Miguel. ‘It must have helped. When we first arrived, I thought they might send us back to Mexico. Or, what is left of her.’

The chill seeped in through his clothes as they walked. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets but it did not warm them much. Icy gusts of wind picked up wet leaf litter that slapped against his legs, sticking to his jeans and boots. He took in the trees that lined the streets. As in many other places, nature had surged into the void left by the disappearance of humanity. He marvelled at the vibrant blue-green specks of moss that grew on the bark.

As they drew closer to the markets, there were more people in the streets, often carrying bags like them, backpacks and sometimes wheeled trolleys, all obviously intending to load up with groceries for a few days or more. There were very few cars, however. Vehicles were readily available and, with the right sort of effort, they could be made to run again. But even a healthy car would never get far without gasoline, which only the government seemed to have enough of these days. Although many businesses received a weekly ration, it was never really enough.

No, for people like Miguel and Maive, ordinary people, it was the bus, walking or horseback. He and Sofia still had the horses on which they’d fled the homestead. But most days his mount, Flossie, grazed in a field across the road from the apartment the government had given them. For the last few weeks, the horses had been stabled because of the poor weather.

He could smell the markets now. Not just livestock, but the tang of fresh herbs and greens, expensive at this time of year, because they’d come out of local greenhouses. One trailer by the entrance offered halal meat roasted on spits for the Pakistanis and anyone else who was interested. The salty sweet tang of kettle corn churned in the cold air with roasting nuts, coffee and mulled wine. As always, a small crowd had gathered around the entrance to the River Market. Another makeshift trailer was set up there with two giant steel pots steaming and slowly bubbling away, tended by a Canadian family, nomad Québécois, whose mulled wine was a favourite with the locals.

‘I wonder if I might tempt you with just one cup this week?’ Miguel suggested, his eyes twinkling with mischief. They both knew the answer already.

‘It doesn’t matter that the alcohol has been cooked off, Miguel. I still cannot drink it. It’s against the rules.’

‘So is drinking coffee, according to that crazy man this morning.’

‘That’s a different rule,’ said Maive. ‘A silly one, best ignored.’