A billboard rises high, topping out over trees and distance. It’s at least a mile away, but I can still read it because the lettering is so huge, stark black against weathered white. It says, HELL IS REAL.

Tanq laughs.

“Well,” says Trey. “No argument from me.”

“Let’s keep going,” I say in a voice that’s shaking a little because that sign reminds me of the Sperm Donor, who made Ryan and me go to Sunday school every single week, like that made up for the fact that he was a mean drunk who sometimes got mean on his kids. I asked him about it once, why he took us to church when he ignored Jesus the rest of the week. I was only about seven years old, but I remember it clear as day. He said, “I don’t want to go to hell.”

We trudge along, and my shoulder starts to burn with the weight of Hazel Jenkins’s purse. Emmaline is the only one who’s been enjoying the walk; I’ve let her dart here and there, sniff whatever she wants, just so she can get her wiggles out. But even she’s beginning to look haggard, and every now and then she keeps pace with me for a few steps, whining softly, and I finally realize she’s hungry.

Emmaline isn’t the only one. My stomach is rumbling now, and hunger is a painful pinch beneath my breastbone. Moisture from the drainage ditch begins seeping into my shoes, making me shiver. The clouds grow thicker and grayer, and I can’t tell whether it’s due to a coming storm or the day growing late. Tanq’s arms wrap around herself, and she forgets to watch the sky. Like me, she’s concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.

All my emo musings about mortality were too romantic. I imagined myself in a hospital bed, surrounded by a loving husband and children, painkillers within easy access. Everyone would tell me what a wonderful life I’d led, how much they’d miss me.

Turns out, it’s much more likely I’ll die cold and hungry in a lonely ditch.

It takes us several hours to pass under the HELL IS REAL billboard and put it out of sight.

“Is that a farmhouse?” Trey says, pointing. I stretch onto my tiptoes to see what he’s seeing: a white two-story house with a wraparound porch, surrounded by wheat fields growing wild. Beside the house is a huge red barn with the state of Ohio painted in bright white on its side.

We cut through the wheat fields toward it, and it’s rough going, but at least it’s not wet. More critters skitter away as we travel. In the distance, something yips. Something else answers.

“Dogs?” Tanq says.

“Coyotes,” I say, remembering the giant one we saw in the middle of the road.