I’m in the El Camino with Trey, heading toward the bridge that will take us across the bay, and I find myself wishing it was daytime so I could see the water. I remember it being beautiful—sparkling blue, filled with sandpipers and cattle egrets and of course endless gulls. I loved watching sailboats go by, loved the ferries full of vacationers waving to the shore. There are no people now, of course, and any boats we saw would be ghostly and lifeless. But I bet there are more birds than ever. I might even see those juvenile eagles again, all grown up.

“I hope Wyatt and Manny are doing okay,” Trey says, and he has an iron grip on the steering wheel. We’re moving slowly because we agreed to keep our headlights off, just in case any walkers were around. Before we left, Manny disconnected the brake lights so they wouldn’t flash red every time we slowed.

I say, “Wyatt insisted they didn’t see any dragonflies when they went to Barb’s Barbecue last night, so Manny’s theory is looking pretty good.”

“I’m still worried,” Trey says. “It’s really dark. They’re running that boat without lights, too, and keeping close to shore. I imagine it’s easy to run aground if you can’t see. . . .”

“Yeah.”

“It’ll start getting light soon,” he says.

I was so antsy with anticipation and terror that I hardly slept a wink last night. It was a relief to send off Manny and Wyatt right after the three a.m. broadcast, even more of a relief to climb into the car with Trey around five thirty.

He’s right; it will start getting light in about thirty minutes. But not before we have to cross the bay.

The car goes over a small bump, and the pavement is suddenly singing to us, like the tires are a bow across violin strings.

“I think we’re on the bridge now,” Trey says, slowing the car to a crawl. “And I can’t see anything.”

He’s right. We don’t have even a yard of visibility. It’s pure blackness ahead, like we’re about to fall off the edge of the world.

“I know we agreed not to use running lights,” I tell him, “but I think we have to.”

Something clicks in the dashboard, and the street ahead of us suddenly lights up. Just in time, because a white pickup looms in our view. Trey swerves right; our bumper clips the fender, wrenching my neck, and Trey has to swerve again to compensate.

I hold on to the dash for dear life as we fishtail for a few seconds, but Trey gets the El Camino under control and brings it to a full stop.

We sit together for a moment, just breathing.

“Well, that was exciting,” he says.

“Good thing you were going so slow,” I say.