“Wow, you’re a math nerd,” Tanq says.

“Thank you,” he says solemnly.

“So let’s estimate five or six days,” I say.

“Honestly? More like seven,” Trey says.

“Okay, seven. Manny Gomez said they were running out of fuel, that they’d keep broadcasting as long as possible, but—”

“But they might not even be there in seven days,” Trey says.

Tanq deflates. “So we find a car.”

I study her, her wilted shoulders, her whipped puppy face. Moments ago, she was practically comatose, so frozen by fear that she didn’t hear us approach. I shouldn’t make the mistake of assuming she’s okay, just because she sometimes puts up a front of defiance.

I say, “Let’s head back to the travel center, see if we can find a car that still has some gas.”

At Tanq’s panicked stare, Trey adds, “We’ll go carefully.”

“Would you rather stay here, Tanq?” I say. “Trey and I will find a car, swing by to pick you up.”

“Just relax here and catch your breath a little more,” Trey adds.

“Yeah, okay, I’ll stay . . . No. I’m coming with you. Grabbing another car is the right play and I . . . I’m in.”

I hide my smile. “Okay, let’s go.”

The return journey isn’t quite so long, though we creep quietly, constantly scanning the sky.

The first car we reach is a gray sedan. It’s empty, and all the doors are locked.

“I’d be willing to risk the noise of breaking in,” Tanq whispers, “but I don’t see car keys anywhere.”

“Next one,” Trey says.

Near the ice machine where I hid minutes before is a Chevy truck with a king cab. I reach for the driver’s side door, and it opens easily.

A wave of sweet rot hits my nose as a moist body slips out of the seat and splats onto the pavement. I catch a glimpse of plaid work shirt and faded blue jeans before I turn away, retching.

“The keys are in the ignition,” Tanq says.

Trey isn’t looking either. He’s gazing off toward the Subway sign, his jaw and neck muscles hard at work. I remember the way he avoided looking at Barry Stockton’s body in the grocery store. He’s the biggest and strongest of us all, but apparently he has the weakest stomach.

I take a deep breath, and ignoring the decomposing corpse at my feet, I peer into the truck’s cab.

The seat is wet and dark, soaked in decomposition.

“I can’t . . . I won’t . . . ,” I stutter.

“Well, I’m not sitting on that either,” Tanq says. “Trey, would you be willing to drive while sitting on top of—”

Trey heaves in answer.

Tanq looks up at me and says matter-of-factly, “This is not the car we’re looking for.”

“Let’s try another.”