I put it down. After one bite of a biscuit that could have broken a tooth, I pulled out the bread Joshua gave me and shared it with the group. It was the highlight of the meal, along with a senaba fruit from my pack, which I managed to sneak discreetly when getting up for a stretch. It washed away the jerky’s taste.

After a quick cleanup, David looked at his Rolex and said, “Time to get moving.”

He stepped confidently ahead. I felt relieved the old geezer wasn’t leading today. There was too much snow on that old roof to trust it.

We walked up a steep bank and crossed over to a magnificent view of lowlands, dotted with clumps of tall firs and smaller fruit trees, which in the distance melted away into a brownish green woodland haze. I saw faint traces of various roads cutting across the land, crosswise to the long shadow, intersecting the red road.

Shad moved closer to me, and I squeezed as far to the left of the road as I could. He smelled like last year’s ham, like the stale air of the nursing home where my father died. Not getting the message, Shad inched in closer like an overfriendly and underbathed stranger on a bus who didn’t understand personal space.

“Tell me, Nick,” he said, sounding like a creaky gate. “What do you think of your life?”

What do I think of my life? What does a lamppost think of a dog? And while we’re asking personal questions, what lunatic bin did you escape from?

I stared at his mottled leather face that looked like it had been hoisted up in the sun and wind and long forgotten. He reminded me of Captain Ahab, and for a moment I felt like Moby Dick, dodging his harpoon. I shrugged my shoulders and said nothing.

Was the old man trying to set me up? I stepped forward, next to Mason, using him as a screen. Mason was laughing about something with Victoria. Her laugh was delightful, her eyes crescents when she smiled.

I walked up next to Malaiki, or was it Salama? No, Malaiki, the friendlier one. Her pixie face peered downward. She studied the red road, examining footprints and marks and stones like an explorer. She periodically uttered animated expressions, still unintelligible to me.

“I think you’re hearing Swahili,” Mason whispered.

Had she come here directly from Africa? Was there more than one doorway into this world? Malaiki was a follower, I decided, not a leader. If there were a power play in this group, her allegiance might be useful. I determined to gain her trust.

Quon, muscular and compact, came up alongside me, wiping his knife on a rag hanging from his belt. He looked at me from the corner of his eye, then pretended not to notice me. Insecure and moody, I decided.