No, she’s alive. Relief washes through me like a cleansing flood because she’s rocking, back and forth. Murmuring something. Totally unaware of our approach. “Tanq?” I whisper again, but she doesn’t respond.

Trey squats, puts an arm on her shoulder.

She lurches away, baring her teeth.

“It’s us,” Trey says, hands up. “Are you okay?

I see the exact moment she snaps back to herself. It’s like her vision clears and she takes a great gulp of air, as though she hasn’t bothered breathing at all the last few minutes. “Uh . . . hi,” she manages.

“Anything hurt?” I ask.

She blinks. “I don’t know.”

“Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

As Tanq shakily gets to her feet, Emmaline trots over to greet her and solicit pets. Tanq gazes down at the dog, a strange look on her face. “You’re all right, Emmaline,” she says, and I get the feeling she means in general, like she’s conferring approval.

“We need to find a car,” Trey says. “And food. Everything we had was . . . is gone.”

“Not everything,” Tanq says, turning around and bending over. She lifts something out of the grass and hands it to me. Hazel Jenkins’s floral purse. “Sorry I couldn’t grab that ugly serving dish. This was all I could reach.”

“Oh, my god,” I say, taking the purse. “Tanq. I can’t believe you saved this. Thank you.”

“I knew it was important. Even though it’s ugly as hell.”

She wasted a precious second grabbing this. She risked her life for it. Thanks to Tanq, we have bottled water, a few bandages, some granola bars, a handgun. And all the photo IDs I’ve been collecting. I stare at her, wondering how I thought, even for a second, that this girl might not be worth saving.

On impulse, I reach out and hug her. She’s stiff as a tree trunk for a brief moment, but then she relaxes against me, and her own arms wrap around my back.

I’m the first to pull away. “I’m sorry. I should have asked permission—”

“Whatever,” she says, shrugging. “So, what next?”

“We find another car,” Trey says.

“So we can get blown up again?” she says.

“We could walk,” I say. “All the way to Sandusky.”

“How long would that take?” Tanq asks. “It might be easier to keep under cover. Like that ditch running alongside the road. Lots of tall grass, easy access to trees.”

“How far is it from here?” Trey says. “About eighty or ninety miles?”

“Seems about right,” I say. A flash of red startles me, but it’s just a cardinal, flitting among the alder branches.

“So, averaging three miles per hour, walking eight hours per day . . . ,” Trey mutters. “About four days. If we can keep up that pace. And frankly, Paige, I’m not sure you’re ready for that kind of physical exertion, especially with your foot just healed. . . .”