Trey jumps up, so quickly he knocks the table with his knee. “I’ll go, too,” he says, then adds, “I don’t mind seeing the lay of the land.”

“I’m going to keep eating,” Tanq says around a mouthful of toast.

“Emmy, come,” I say, and she trots over, eyes bright with anticipation.

Wyatt leads us into the kitchen, an industrial-looking affair with stainless steel counters and more fluorescent lighting. He’s several paces ahead, when I whisper to Trey, “You don’t trust him, do you?”

He shakes his head no. “I especially don’t like the way he’s looking at Tanq,” he says.

I hadn’t noticed. I’ll have to pay more attention.

At the far end of the kitchen, Wyatt opens another door, revealing a dark, round tunnel made of faded bricks. The tunnel is unlit, so Wyatt flicks on a flashlight.

“Is this a sewer?” Trey asks.

“Used to be,” Wyatt says. “The city closed off this tunnel when they upgraded their sewer system a while back. Manny and his friends did some work on it, I think, to make it useable again.”

“Are all the ‘facilities’ underground?” I ask. “Like the one in Mexico?”

“Almost.”

“How many are there?” Trey asks.

“I’ll let Manny answer all those questions for you,” Wyatt says. “Watch your step; this part is slippery.”

Emmaline runs ahead, and I let her, hoping she’ll get her wiggles out and be able to settle down when we get back.

“So where are you from, Wyatt?” Trey asks.

“Ann Arbor.”

A long silence. The air in this tunnel is suddenly humid and thick.

“So, a Michigan fan?” Trey asks, and his voice is cold, cold, cold.

“I was headed there for school in the fall,” Wyatt says. “I know you were going to Ohio State. Everyone expected you to be starting QB your sophomore year. I guess that makes us sworn enemies.”

“Guess so.”

“You’re both joking, right?” I say. “We have more important things—”

“Of course,” says Wyatt. “But the greatest rivalry in all of sports history should live on, even in the apocalypse.”

“Maybe it shouldn’t,” Trey says.

“Huh? Why not?”

“Paige asked me a question on the ride here, about what keeps us going,” Trey says. “And it’s got me thinking. So many of our hopes and dreams—our reasons for living—are determined by sociocultural constructs. Here’s one dumb example: every year on Michigan Friday my mom would bake a huge cake that said Beat Michigan. She spent days planning that cake, hours making it. Teena and I looked forward to it every year.” Trey takes a deep breath. “So what happens when all of that goes away? No football scholarship, no big game, no Christmas, no future. Is life worth living intrinsically? Is the world even worth saving after you’ve lost everything you were living for?”