We ate dinner with Katelyn and Brent while the sheriff went out to check on the men who’d taken first shift at the roads leading into their town and to stop in at the community center. The grilled chicken, canned green beans, and store-bought rolls were one of the most delicious meals I’d ever eaten, and that was saying something considering I’d eaten in some of the finest restaurants in America, if not the world. We’d been existing on snack food since we walked out of that field, and while I was grateful for what we’d managed to find, the small amount of it had ensured we were practically starving. Less than a week, and food had taken on a whole new meaning. I didn’t want to think about where we’d get our meals from here on out because I was well aware that “practically starving,” was very different than actually starving. The truth was, I didn’t want to think about a lot of things and thus far, that’d been somewhat easy as the goal had been simply to find civilization and figure out a way back home.

But now, it’d become abundantly clear that the way back home was filled with a whole slew of questions, and, if Leonard was any indication of the general philosophy out there, quite a bit of danger.

Charlie was in the kitchen happily telling Brent a story from one of the movie sets he’d been on, upbeat and animated and obviously feeling smack-dab in his comfort zone. Good. Let him have it because I had a deep feeling there wasn’t going to be a lot of comfort of any kind moving forward. At least in the immediate future.

Tuck had finished first, thanked Katelyn for the meal, and excused himself, off to who knew where. Brent had sat up eating, shoveling the food into his mouth as he shot questions at me and Charlie. And I couldn’t help noticing the relieved look on Katelyn’s face as she watched her younger brother, obvious that the pain he’d been in was now manageable. Because of Tuck.

I’d helped with the cleanup, and then Katelyn had asked that I follow her upstairs where she took a canvas backpack from her closet and handed that to me along with a pile of clothes with a pair of short, lace-up hiking boots sitting on top. “The boots are size eight,” she said. “Close enough? These will protect your feet better than those.” She pointed down to the canvas sneakers that a woman had died in, which were better than the threadbare slippers, but not nearly as good as a warm pair of hiking boots.

I took the items from her. “Yes. Thank you. I wear a seven and a half. These will be great. I really appreciate it.”