She started to search the house for portable items they could trade along the way. She made a separate pile: a second, broken solar charger, an algaskin of bootleg rum, which, on consideration, she rejected because of its weight. Another algaskin full of sugar – sugarcane had survived the Convergence and grew in roofless buildings. Sorrel pulled everything out of a cupboard until she found an old tarpaulin. She cut it in half for use as groundsheets.

“Pack the sunscreen,” Bibi said, coming out of the bedroom, rubbing her eyes.

“Why? Are you going to give orders the whole time?”

“We might be able to go outside in the mountains because it’s cooler, but there’ll still be UV rays to think about. Maybe there’ll be trees, but we’ll still be in danger from dappling. Pack it.”

“It’s toxic.”

“Toxicity takes years.”

Sorrel shrugged and added the sunscreen to the pile. Two sporks. Two cups.

“What’s that pile for?”

“Things to trade,” Sorrel said.

“We need to carry as little as possible. We’ll have the PlAK, if it comes to that.”

“I’m not giving up the PlAK.” She glanced at her mother – the skin loosening at her neck and hands, her face freckled and marked by sun damage from before the Convergence. Bibi had told her that then some people lived past eighty because of good food, eight hours of sleep most nights and antibiotics. Maybe I should leave her, she thought. Maybe I’d have a better chance on my own.

You and me against the world, her mother used to say.

When do we attack? Sorrel would reply and they would laugh. They hadn’t played that game in ages.

Their eyes met. Bibi’s looked weepy and sore. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “You’re only fourteen. You can’t go alone.”

Sorrel shrugged. “The old aqueduct comes out right by Guaqua. That’s a two-hour walk from here. Do we need a weapon?”

“We need a knife for digging and reaping whatever we find to eat. Two would be better. Wrap the sharpest ones we have.”

Maybe the knife would be needed for something else. Sorrel tried to imagine killing someone who stood in their way. Stabbing them. Feeling the knife go in, warm blood on her hand, hearing their screams. Man or woman? Would they leave the body outside for the ferals?Could she kill another person?

She was nine when the Domins had kicked down their front door and taken her father. It had been at dusk, just as Sorrel was waking. Her mother was in the bathroom.

“Don’t come out, B! Hide, Sorrel!” her father had shouted.