“Hid behind a trash bin. It was gross.”

“Any sign of Tanq?”

“No. Heard her scream, though. If she bailed out her door and ran in a generally straight direction . . .”

I follow the line of his pointing arm. “Then she’s out there somewhere,” I say. Beyond the parking lot is the road, and beyond that is tall grass leading to a patch of alder trees, thin trunked with grayish bark and branches just starting to bud. “We should look for her,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says.

But our feet don’t budge. “Okay, I admit, I’m terrified to go anywhere,” I say.

“But are we more terrified of losing Tanq?”

I’m honestly not sure. The first time we met her, the answer was yes. But a body can only take so much fear. It’s terror after terror, weight after weight piling up onto a barbell, and after a while I just can’t budge it anymore.

What I’m left with is: “I’d want her to do it for me,” which probably makes me selfish and not heroic at all.

But Trey says, “Same.”

And as one, we step forward, out from under the covering into the open air.

“Tanq!” I whisper, edging forward, keeping one eye on the sky.

It’s a massive journey, the longest walk I’ve ever taken, my skin warm and prickling as we creep over the cold pavement of the Flying J, across the road, into the slight ditch on the other side.

“Tanq!” Trey whispers. “You okay?”

“Maybe we should split up,” I say.

“Or maybe we should stick together. Honestly, Paige, if finding Tanq means losing you, I’m not sure I . . . I mean, she’s important too, but . . .”

My stomach does a funny little flip. “We’ll stick together.”

We search the grass, already tall so early in the year. Something loud skitters away, crunching through dried leaves. A squirrel, or maybe even a groundhog.

“There’s no guarantee she went this way,” Trey says.

“Let’s try the trees,” I suggest, and head in that direction. “Tanq?”

The trunks are close together, making it hard to walk, and it’s a good thing I have decent socks and Francie’s thick yoga pants, or I’d have itchy grass scratches on my legs for days. After we find Tanq, I’ll have to check Emmaline for ticks.

“Is that her?” Trey says, pointing.

A lump of black fabric is bunched against a tree trunk. “Tanq?” I say, thrusting myself through the trees. “Is that you?”

The lump manifests into a huddled mass of human—a torn sleeve, a scratched pale cheek. Her arms are wrapped around her knees. Maybe she’s dead. Maybe she dragged herself all the way here only to . . .