I have to keep going. One step at a time. For Leah. For Emerson. For myself.

One step. Another. And another. And another.

Along the mountain trail, past the red trees and the yellow trees and the orange trees and the stubborn green ones.

On.

* * *

I reach the outskirts of Sam’s Throne by late afternoon. A small town with exactly one post office, one convenience store, and an elementary school—or at least, that’s what I remember from when Leah and I were transferred into the care of one of Hope’s guards here.

We weren’t even supposed to come to Hope, but our court-appointed lawyer—like Hunter—was obsessed with my special needs. She argued that I couldn’t and shouldn’t be held responsible for what Leah did. That it would be better for me to go to some kind of care facility.

I tried to explain to her that she didn’t understand me. My needs aren’t any more special than anyone else’s are. I want my sister and a roof over my head and to not go hungry. I don’t want to be scared. I do want to be loved. I want to live long enough to be an old cat lady, like Granddad’s friend down the street.

Leah snapped, like she had only done a few times before.

By the time we settled things, we were here, together. It felt lucky, then.

I don’t know if it still feels lucky now.

Dashing from one street corner to the next, I sneak my way to the town center. When we were transferred through here, Sam’s Throne certainly looked a lot more alive. People wandered the street to buy their groceries, to pick up their mail, to take their kids to school. An elderly man walking his dog passed us by and muttered something about kids these days.

It doesn’t look like that anymore. All the doors are closed, the windows are curtained. The main street—or whatever passes for that here—is utterly abandoned. The few parked cars have gathered dirt and dust. It looks like a scene from an old Western. All it needs is a tumbleweed or an old newspaper flailing in the wind.

Scarce lights peek out from behind some of the curtains as the sun goes down, and there are barking dogs behind some front doors. I wonder if that means anyone’s still alive—or the exact opposite.

Several of the doors have stripes of white paint of them. Or markings drawn in chalk.

Plague crosses.

Other homes have candles in front of the windows, along with flowers. Children’s drawings of rainbows, stuck to the glass for the whole world to see.

The elementary school has lights on inside, without curtains to block my view. The classrooms aren’t filled with desks and chairs but with stretchers and people coughing and people under blankets and people under sheets. The front entrance is obscured by large military tents.

I keep my head down and walk farther. One step. Another.

I’m drawn to the building like a moth to a flame, but I force myself to keep to the shadows. I don’t want to get caught. Would anything have been different if Leah and I had gone somewhere else? If we’d been separated?