“Why didn’t you head to Sandusky?” I ask as Trey peels himself out of the driver’s seat, stands, stretches. I follow after, arching my back to avoid the gear shift.

“Oh, hell, no,” Tanq says from the other side of the car. “I didn’t want to see people. You wouldn’t either,” she adds, gesturing with the bottle, “if you’d never had a moment of privacy in your life and everyone you ever met either hit you or wanted something from you or rejected—” Her words are cut off by a tiny burp. “Think I’ve had enough,” she says, and with all her might, she throws the bottle at the hood of the Lexus. The bottle bounces off, leaving a small dent, then shatters on the ground. The air suddenly reeks of booze. Quality booze, I’m sure, but a faint headache stings at the base of my skull as the alcohol smell mixes with the scent of still-fresh paint.

“Let’s go inside,” I say.

Tanq’s stepmom loved candles. On the coffee table is what looks like a hunk of driftwood, with four holes carved into it for tea lights. We light them all, bathing the family room in soft orange. The air begins to smell of vanilla.

Tanq and I sit on the sofa. Trey plunks down across from us in an easy chair. Emmaline is conked out at our feet, curled so tight she looks like a cinnamon bun. It’s almost three thirty in the morning. The fatigue from earlier is back in full force, weighing down my limbs like my bones are made of lead, and my eyes feel swollen and gummy.

But none of us feel ready for bed.

“So, let’s review what we’ve learned,” Trey says in a take-charge tone that reminds me so much of Coach Dalrymple that a knot of tightness stings my chest.

“Manny Gomez,” I say. “Wyatt. Two survivors besides us.”

“I bet Wyatt is a douche,” Tanq says. “I mean, that name. Wyatt.”

“Isn’t that bigoted?” I say. “Hashtag not all Wyatts . . .”

“I want to go to Sandusky,” Trey says. “Tomorrow.”

“Me too, Trey,” I tell him. “As long as I eventually get some sleep.” Driving sleepy is as bad as driving drunk.

“Of course. Your health is our top priority.”

“Gomez said to look for the president’s park.”

“And that we might find something to guide our way,” he says.

“Something about following the rail?”

“I’m sure we’ll figure it all out, if we can just get there.”

Tanq has been looking back and forth between us as we talk, and she blurts, “God, you two sound like mini adults, all business and logic and . . . well, not mini. You’re both enormous.”

I still can’t tell if Tanq’s being deliberately provocative or if she’s just socially clumsy. I decide to give her the benefit of honesty.