“I notice that Tanq is not here,” Manny says. “Is she . . . uninterested in this plan?”

“She’ll come around,” says Wyatt.

I give him a warning glare. “We won’t force her to do anything,” I say.

“There might be a job for her right here,” Manny says.

“Oh?” says Trey.

“Remember how we created a distraction with fireworks to get you all inside the bunker? Tanq can do that for us. She’ll be able to see on the vid screen when our barge approaches the tower. She can trigger the fireworks, and hopefully the drones will fly away for a few minutes to investigate.”

“Giving us a chance to ram the tower,” Wyatt says.

“Hopefully,” I echo. “If they haven’t gotten smart to that trick.”

Manny claps his hands together. “So we have a plan! A beginning of one anyway. Tonight, we can grab supplies from Barb’s Barbecue. And tomorrow night, we head to Port Clinton.”

Surely it’s April by now

IT’S THREE THIRTY A.M. MANNY HAS FINISHED HIS BROADCAST, and he and Wyatt have left the bunker to retrieve lighter fluid and propane tanks. Their goal is to load as much onto the Tardis as will safely fit in preparation for our trip tomorrow night.

They both insisted that they could handle it, that Trey, Tanq, and I all seemed exhausted when we arrived yesterday, and we should take the time to catch up on sleep. They’re probably right. But I’m going to worry about them the whole time they’re away.

I’m lying on the bottom of one of the bunked cots, the back of my hand resting against my forehead. Surely sleep will come soon. There are enough bunks that we each get our own, which is good, because Tanq is a noisy sleeper, tossing all over the place and snoring softly. If she were right above me, I’d have no chance of drifting away.

Emmaline senses my restlessness and stirs. She’s been curled up into a tight ball of fur at the end of the cot near my feet, but now she’s readjusting, as if she can’t get comfortable. Maybe she has to go potty. Tanq fed her a lot of yogurt today.

Giving up on sleep, I swing my legs over the bed and settle my feet quietly on the floor. I tiptoe toward the kitchen, my path lit only by the soft glow of two vid screens on auxiliary power. Emmaline’s claws clatter against the floor as she paces at my ankles.

I’m reaching for the door that leads into the old sewer and outside when footsteps patter behind me, and I whirl.

My stomach does a little flip because it’s Trey, his tall, lanky form unmistakable even in the near dark.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” he whispers.

“I’m taking Emmaline potty. Wouldn’t mind the company.”