We trudge along the road, weary, shivering, soaked to the bone. A rest would be welcome around about now, but we have to keep going. Apart from the kids, we all take it in turns carrying the boat. It’s heavy, and what with our muscles already aching, it starts to really slow us down.

After an hour of walking, I’m completely spent. I stumble, my legs giving out beneath me.

“We can’t stop here,” Zeke says. “Buffalo is just ahead.”

He nods toward the horizon, where a collection of skyscrapers and tall buildings make up the skyline. I drag myself to my feet and begin trudging along again. To make matters worse, my stomach feels completely hollow. We lost all of our provisions when the crazies stole our boat. We’re going to have to hunt sometime soon before we all collapse from exhaustion. But I keep telling myself “not yet.” Once we’ve made it past Buffalo and are back in the water, then I can start worrying about things like sleep and sustenance.

The city looms up ahead of us. I get an unpleasant feeling in the pit of my stomach. But it’s not the feeling that tells me danger lurks nearby, it’s a different feeling. It’s the feeling of death. Of ruin. The entire city is empty, deserted. A once bustling metropolis has been left to decay because of a pointless war that killed its inhabitants.

Night is starting to fall, making stark shadows across the streets, turning the houses into skeletons. I shiver and draw my arms across my chest for protection.

“Looks like there’s nothing to worry about here,” Zeke says.

The abandoned city is good news. It means no slaverunners. But it makes me think dark, depressing, hopeless thoughts, and that is definitely not good. The sooner we get out of Buffalo the better.

“This way to get to the water,” Zeke says, pointing to the dog-eared map.

“Here,” I say, going up to Ryan. “I’ll take the boat for the next stretch.”

He swaps out with me. Then Ben comes over and swaps out with Molly. For the first time, Ben and I are walking together. We don’t say a word, we’ve never had much need to. Without him having to utter a single syllable, I can tell that the gesture was a symbolic one, one that says he won’t leave me again, that we’ll be walking side by side forevermore. The thought comforts me.

We get to the lake’s edge and nudge the boat into the water.

I heave a sigh of relief, completely spent.

“Lake Erie,” Zeke announces, like some kind of tour guide, as we begin to clamber on board. “Three hundred twenty miles to Toledo.”

My legs shake from fatigue as I clamber aboard. The kids practically fall asleep the second they hit the deck.