The metal collar around my neck is causing me sores. It weighs down heavily on my shoulders, making every step more painful than it needs to be.

Behind me, Molly stumbles along, propped up in the middle of Ryan and Ben. Her leg has become infected. There’s nothing we can do. Just like Rose’s arm back on the boat when we were floating in the Hudson, Molly’s leg will turn gangrenous and eventually kill her. I haven’t given up hope yet, but it’s certainly starting to wane. Sometimes when I look back at her, I can’t even tell if she’s still alive, and I start to wonder if it’s her ghost limping through the desert with us. Maybe we’re all dead. We’re all ghosts walking through purgatory.

Charlie stumbles to his knees for what must be the hundredth time. I pick him up, silently, and set him on his feet again. He doesn’t say a word, just whimpers his distress. Then once more, we trudge onward.

Watching Penelope and Jack deteriorate is just as painful as watching the children struggle. The dehydration has hit them both hard. Ryan’s taken to carrying Jack in a pouch across his chest, like he’s a newborn baby. For the first few days he whined, but he’s been quiet for a while now.

Penelope is still walking, but only just. Bree doesn’t have enough strength left in her to carry the dog, even though she’s small. Penelope seems to understand; she doesn’t complain, but I can tell she’s suffering and would love to be carried. We all would. Losing the bikes was the worst thing for all of us.

Charlie stumbles again. This time, when I go to pick him up, I find my arm muscles aren’t strong enough. I fall forward too and land in a heap on the ground.

Bree falls to her knees beside me. “Brooke,” she pleads, nudging me. “Get up. You have to get up. We have to carry on.”

But something about my stumbling seems to spread to the others, as though it’s an invitation that they too can give up. Ben unlinks Molly’s arm from round his shoulders and together, he and Ryan set her on the ground. Then they both slump down themselves, their tired eyes barely able to stay open.

“No,” Bree cries, her voice choked. “We can’t give up. We can’t.”

My tongue is swollen it’s been so long since I last spoke. “Let’s just have a quick nap,” I say.

“NO!” Bree screams. But her own voice is faltering. She can only just about croak out the word.

Realizing it’s futile to protest, she lies down next to me, resting her head against my splayed out arm. Penelope lies down too, and finally lets out the pained whimper she’s been holding in for days.