Out of habit, I look down to check on Emmaline before I remember she’s not here. She’s back at the bunker with Tanq, probably getting fed Red Vines and yogurt. The little sheltie has been practically attached to my leg ever since I busted through Mrs. Carby’s window to rescue her. It’s odd to be without her grinning face and ground-sweeper tail, like part of me is missing.

The breeze today is fierce. Trey shields his eyes against the wind with his hand and peers toward the barge.

“Any sign of the Tardis?” I ask.

“Not yet.” His nose twitches. “Smell that? Something leaked fuel into the lake.”

“Not the barge, I hope.”

A large object bobs in the water down by the rocks. I start forward to get a better look, but turn away almost immediately. The thing was bloated and pale, and it wore a faded Penn State hoodie.

“Makes you wonder,” Trey says softly, “what it was like in other towns. Other cities. Places like New York or Los Angeles, where the population density was so much higher than here.”

“It must have been a nightmare,” I say.

“Probably still is. Let’s never go there unless we have to.”

A rumble draws our gazes back to the water, and my heart leaps with relief. The Tardis is rounding the bend, cutting the surface of the lake with ease, its engine rumbling like rocks in a blender.

Wyatt stands in the prow, the skin of his face soaked with spray, and he waves when he sees us. Trey and I wave back.

“Ever driven a boat?” Trey asks.

“Nope. You?”

“Nope. Good thing Wyatt and Manny seem to know their way around one.”

“I bet neither of them has driven a coal barge before.”

He says, “I guess they’ll figure it out.”

Trey’s right, but the thought fills me with misgiving. The barge is so huge, and the towboat that pushes it so small by comparison. I can’t imagine how that contraption actually works.

The Tardis rumbles toward a nearby dock, which is laden with paddleboats still tied up, probably for rent to campers during the spring and summer. Manny’s face is barely visible through the glass of the cockpit. He guides the yacht so that it slows and stops perpendicular to the end of the dock.

“We can’t get any closer,” Wyatt hollers. “Might be too shallow.”

Trey sucks in a breath. “You ready?”

“Hell, no.”

“Me neither. Let’s go.” And we take off at a jog onto the dock. The wooden slats sway beneath my feet.