“Yum,” said Kira. She wanted to look at Samm, to see if he was rolling his eyes or making some other outward sign of derision over Afa’s childlike behavior, but she didn’t dare, and she knew he wouldn’t be anyway.

“It will get wet,” said Afa.

“We won’t let it get wet,” said Samm. They shoved the boat farther from the shallow, inclined shore, and Heron and Kira piled in after Afa. They took the oars, and Samm pushed them even farther out before getting in himself. He was wet to the waist, and dripped and sloshed all over the bottom of the boat; Afa reached out dispassionately to knock him back over the side, but Kira held him back. They settled in, kept their weight as balanced as possible, and began to row.

The river grew deeper and deeper as they rowed out into it. The lines of cars, stopped or crashed in their drivers’ last moments of life, looked like lines of squat brown animals slowly wading into a watering hole: Here was one with just its front tires wet; here was another with its engine submerged; here was one with its only the roof and antenna poking up from the water. They rowed without speaking, the water lapping at the edges of the boat, and soon even the diesel trailers and giant shipping trucks were submerged, with only the very tops shining up through the water like steep metal sandbars.

The edges of the river highway were lined with trees, tall and no longer limited by human supervision; they had reclaimed backyards, parks, and even some portions of the road. Every mile or so they passed under a bridge, the old roadways between one side of the highway and the other, and often these were hung with moss and vines—not kudzu, but something with smaller, darker leaves that Kira didn’t recognize. She plucked one off as they glided beneath it, and she saw that it was waxy to the touch. She rubbed it softly between her fingers, wondering what it was called, and dropped it into the water.