“That’s where that radio signal’s coming from,” she says. “It’s the only thing still broadcasting.”

So Tanq has heard it too, the looped warning from the CDC declaring martial law.

“You think they’re related?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I’m going to get some sleep now. You promised, yeah? Tomorrow we go to New Albany?”

“We promised.”

March 25

AFTER A BREAKFAST OF COFFEE AND CHICKEN NOODLE SOUP, ALL heated over the fireplace, the three of us climb into Paul’s car and head east on the 670 freeway. The SUV has less than a quarter tank of gas. I’m not sure what we’ll do when we run out. The easiest thing would be to dump this car and find a new one; cars are everywhere we look, some abandoned, some grimy with decomposition. Enough cars to last us a lifetime.

But maybe I don’t have to give up Paul’s car. Maybe we can figure out how to gas it up and keep it running.

Tanq sits in the passenger seat while I drive, sorting through her backpack, which is full of tubes of acrylic paint in all different colors. Turns out, when we first saw her leave the mansion, she was on her way to the art supply store for more.

Her seat is pushed all the way forward to make room for Trey, who sits behind her, his knees practically to his ears. He cranes his neck to watch the sky. Emmaline is in his lap, her nose occasionally darting toward his face for a stealth lick.

“See anything, Trey?” I ask.

“Just bugs and birds,” he says.

“You’ve been quiet this morning,” I say, just to take my mind off the fact that we might be taking our lives in our hands driving across town. One of those quicksilver ships could blast us at any moment. It would happen so fast. Maybe I won’t have time to dread it, or even feel much pain.

“Been thinking,” he says.

“Yeah?” I prompt.

He’s silent a long moment. I steer around a semitruck that’s angled across three lanes of freeway.

I add, “You don’t have to share if you don’t want to. Just trying to keep my mind off—”

“What if we’re it?” he blurts. “The last people left alive in the whole world?”

“You said no virus has ever had a 100 percent mortality rate,” I remind him.

“Yeah, no earthly virus.”

“We’re not the only ones left,” Tanq says with such casual conviction that I nearly brake the car.

“What do you mean?” Trey says.

“That guy in Sandusky,” she says. “The one with the radio broadcast.”

“It’s a prerecorded loop,” I tell her. “Not an actual person.”

“Until three a.m.,” she says, “when he goes live.”