We settle into an easy, comfortable silence. The horizon behind us becomes a line of greenish yellow, and all along the roadside, bushes and short coastal trees begin to manifest against a gradually brightening sky. Emboldened, Trey picks up speed a little.

Out of habit, I press my face to the window and scan the sky for dragonflies.

“Anything?” Trey says.

“Nope, not a single—”

I gasp.

“What? What is it?” Trey is already aiming off the road and into the trees.

“No, it’s okay. Just stop the car for a second.”

He does, and I can’t help myself; I open the car door and get out so I can get a better look. Over the tops of the trees, drifting like it’s untethered to the earth, is a long neck and a giant head topped with horn-like protrusions and wide-spaced, twitching ears.

“A giraffe!” Trey says, delighted.

We watch, hardly daring to breathe, as it bends its neck to reach the foliage below, opens its mouth, and chomps down. A rustling heralds a companion giraffe, not quite so tall, coming up from behind and joining it for breakfast.

“There’s a zoo or some safari thing nearby,” I explain, keeping my voice at a whisper. “I bet someone let the animals out.”

“We should definitely not tell Tanq that lions and tigers might be roaming North America now,” Trey says.

“Definitely not.”

“It’s awfully cold for giraffes,” Trey says. “I hope they make it.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

We watch a few moments more, and then reluctantly return to the El Camino. As we drive away from the giraffes, Trey says, “Even if the world survives, it’s going to be so different from now on. No NFL, but there might be giraffes! In Ohio!”

“I hope we see it, Trey. I don’t want to miss what happens next.”

We pull into a campground edging a rocky section of Lake Erie coastline. Sure enough, just as Wyatt described, a coal barge floats a few hundred yards offshore. It’s canted at a diagonal, the flatboats stretching into deeper water. Mounds of black coal shimmer with wetness; it must have rained a little last night. The wind has kicked up some waves, but the pusher towboat hardly moves at all, indicating that it has run aground.

“Let’s hope that thing has enough fuel to dislodge itself,” Trey says as he sets the parking brake. We get out of the El Camino and circle around some rickety picnic tables. The breeze is brisk and wet and smells faintly of gasoline. Another cloudy day has turned the lake slate gray.