“I know, but the packs are sturdy. Let’s think. Is it only one canine? Ferals aren’t usually alone.”

“One bit my boot, that’s all I know.”

They waited, listening, and watching the sky for signs of lightening. Sorrel’s fear ebbed. If the choice was between frying on the rock and being torn apart by ferals, she knew which she’d choose. People used to be burned at the stake, she remembered from the history module. Maybe their nerves shut down and apart from the first scorching, they felt nothing after that. She offered her mother a drink from her algaskin and had a sip herself. Her breathing slowed and she looked around at the landscape slowly revealing itself. Rocks and sand and shadow. One backpack, not far from them, still intact. No sign of the feral.

“I think it’s gone,” Bibi said. “We’ve lost a lot of time. We should find the backpacks and see if we can shelter here.”

“Here where?”

“I think there might be space behind this rock.”

“It’s way too small. Maybe we should go back up the hill and see if those people we saw in the roofless house will let us stay with them?”

“What, retrace all our steps? And that house had no roof.”

They were silent. Sorrel looked again at the sky, but all she could see was a grey swathe of dust. She stood. “I’ll go down.”

“No, I’ll go.”

“I’m stronger. Faster. Just wait.”

“Listen to me, One. Please.”

“No.”

Sorrel inched her way over the back of the rock. When she stood on the ground, she felt around the space that Bibi had pointed out behind the rock with her hand. Definitely not enough room for two. She turned and scanned the expanse of rocky earth ahead; her mother’s backpack was quite close. It was torn, but the contents were safe. One down, she thought.

She didn’t want to leave the rock. She was sure the feral was waiting them out. They had survived because of their willingness to band together with other species. People had reported seeing bovines, porcines, canines and felines, hunting and scavenging together, forgetting old relationships of predator and prey. They rooted for food in garbage dumps, hunted the hordes of rats that populated the emptying lowland towns, and waited where rivers used to flow for whatever was washed down by rain bombs. She wondered what they drank during the long dry periods between rainfall.

We need to be like them, Sorrel thought. Cunning and ruthless. Opportunistic. She stepped out of the crevice, ready to retreat, her mind on the knife in their backpacks.

The grey-black night was turning to the white-grey of dawn danger. She saw the feral, a canine, about three metres away, lying against a small rock. She couldn’t estimate how big it was. It lifted its head and growled, baring its teeth and gums.