“About two miles up the road, there’s the Road House,” Maggie said. “I don’t know what they have on hand, and I’ve never been in their kitchen. But I know they got seven kids, and they ain’t likely to share, if that’s where you’re going.”

And that was entirely fair, Victoria thought. Concentric circles. “What about you, Maggie? Are you willing to share what you’ve got in your freezer?”

“So long as I get first dibs, sure.”

“Please tell me that your cooktop is gas.”

“Propane. Got a tank out back.”

Finally a bit of good news. “Have you ever canned ground beef ?”

Maggie scrunched her face. “That sounds terrible.”

“Put in enough salt and it’s not so bad. But what it is, is edible five years from now.”

“Is it like canning anything else?”

“Pretty much,” Victoria said. “Cook the beef, put it in the jar while it’s hot, cover it with liquid and seal the jar and let it cool. Mother Nature takes care of the rest. In fact, all of you can do that. Go back to your homes and pretend you’ve returned to the nineteenth century. Whatever’s in your freezer. As it thaws, you can smoke it, salt-cure it, do something to preserve the meat.”

“Or we can hunt for fresh meat,” a young man said.

“Absolutely,” Victoria said. “That’s your real-time food supply. Remember, though, for our whole lives, we’ve depended on technology that is not available to us anymore. When you kill a deer, enjoy the fresh steaks for the first day or two, but everything you used to put up in your freezer needs to be preserved in the old ways.”

“What if we don’t know how to do that?”

“Then my boys and I can teach you. Right, Caleb? Right, Luke?”

They both looked like they wanted to disappear. Public speaking was not high on the list for either of them.

A large man in well-worn overalls and a white ZZ Top beard raised his hand from the back. “I can help with that, too, ma’am,” he said. “I got me a whole smokehouse. Everybody’s welcome to use it.”

Victoria smiled. “Thank you, Mr. . . .”

“Folks just call me Mr. Jake,” he said. “Except around Christmastime, when some of the little ones are apt to call me Santa.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jake. That’s got to be everybody’s attitude moving forward—”

A giant of a man filled the doorway of Maggie’s Place, then strode up to Victoria’s table with enough intensity to pull McCrea and Copley away from their posts and closer to the center. “Are you the lady who wants people to steal from my store?”

As her boys scooted away in their chairs, Victoria made a point of giving a friendly smile as she rose slowly from hers. “You must be Mr. Barnett,” she said. She extended her hand. “Victoria Emerson.”