“Thanks.” We stare at each other for a long moment, neither of us moving. A bit of wetness rims his eyes, melted snow that the sunglasses couldn’t block. Finally, I remember to tell him, “The road is really slick, and this car doesn’t handle well, so take it slow and careful.”

“Will do. Rap the window if you need anything, just once. Twice if you see one of those alien things.”

A few minutes later, we’re back on the road, and my nose is already so cold it’s starting to run. I discover it helps cut the wind to lie flat in the truck bed, a section of quilt bunched under my head.

I stare at the sky looking for any sign of trouble. The endless gray-white and blinding snow makes it impossible to see. I suddenly understand the true origin of “white noise.” The bright white is relentless, drowning everything out, making the world vividly silent.

We pull into Sandusky as the snow turns into a light drizzle of rain and everything begins to melt, leaving puddles and mud. Then again, maybe Sandusky’s location, hugged up against Lake Erie, makes it a generally marshy place. The air is damp and smells faintly of algae and fish. The El Camino’s cab caught plenty of snow during our drive, and it seeps cold and wet into my back. Even though the air has warmed, my toes have gone numb, and my cheeks are blocks of ice.

Trey drives past several car dealerships and approximately fifty thousand fast food restaurants before heading into the parking lot of a strip mall. He parks beneath a sprawling dogwood tree that’s so heavy with white blooms it looks like it’s holding midwinter snow.

He gets out of the car, and I try to clamber from the truck bed, but my legs are so cold and stiff they refuse to move.

“Why’d we stop?” I ask as Trey lowers the back and helps me down.

“Time for a team meeting,” he says. “Also . . .” He points.

Beyond the dogwood is a Hobby Trader store.

“For Tanq,” he explains.

“I said you didn’t have to stop for me!” she protests, angling toward us.

Emmaline lifts her leg and pees on the tree trunk.

“Team meeting, remember?” he says. “And if we happen to find a way inside and get you some paints, that’s just bonus. Paige, are you all right? Your face is bright red.”

“It was a rough ride,” I admit. “My ass hurts, but I’m fine. So, now what?”

“I don’t want to wander around aimlessly,” Trey says. “The broadcast clearly said ‘Sandusky’ and we have reason to believe the Orkins—Farmers?—know some basic English. So we have to assume they have a presence here.”