Walter leads us to our SUV and leaves us with blunt weapons, food, and a full tank of gas. He says his goodbyes and advises us not to take the interstate if we don’t want to get stuck twenty miles down the road. He also asks us not to mention the town of Foley to anyone. They don’t mind trades, but if raiders get wind of their stash, Foley would be in danger.

This time, I ask to drive and Ethan and Gilbert let me. Ethan sits in the back while Gilbert sits in the front passenger side staring at the map. I don’t look forward to spending hours in a vehicle with Gilbert right next to me, but it’s good to be on the road again. If all goes to plan, we should be at Crestwood in about five hours.

The first couple of hours are long and silent. When I look in the rearview mirror, I can see Ethan nodding off, fighting sleep for some reason. I imagine he doesn’t like the idea of being out in the open and dozing. Occasionally, Gilbert pulls the small canister from his pocket and examines the clear glass cylinder. He is certain that the red liquid is blood.

“Wouldn’t there be a way to open it?” Ethan asks.

Gilbert shakes his head. “Looks like something you’re supposed to break in the middle. Once you break it, you have to use it.”

“But for what?” I ask.

Gilbert shakes his head as he holds it up in the light. “I don’t know. Why don’t you lay hands on it and see what its future is?” He lets out a short laugh as I roll my eyes at him. I knew that once he found out I could see into the future he would find some way to give me grief about it. “Tell me, Waverly, what’s it like being a fortune-teller? I’ve always wanted someone to tell me the future.”

“Leave her alone,” Ethan says from the back.

Gilbert ignores him. I chew on my bottom lip, clearly not wanting to talk about it. He slouches in his seat and yawns. “You don’t need a crystal ball or cards or anything. You’re a palm reader is what you are.” He taps his fingers against the window like he’s playing scales on the piano. “Nah. I don’t believe it. Anybody could have guessed that. The fat oaf was lucky it was only his wrist and not his neck.”

I slam on the brakes and Gilbert lets out a curse as he smacks the front dash, steadying himself with his palms. “I don’t think we’re there yet,” he says.

“Get out,” I say.

“Waverly, what are you doing?” Ethan asks.

Gilbert stares at me and it’s the first time I’ve seen him look afraid.

“Get out!”