Around the next bend Verna spotted firelight playing on the underside of the bridge, and moments later she heard faint yelps and laughter, mixed with tinny music from a portable radio. She sighed. If she had known anyone else was out there, she never would have let Lucy off the leash in the first place.

The land dipped, and a bonfire came into view. Through the low brush Verna observed a group of teenage kids—a proudly dirty bunch, their fingernails blackened, their hair clotted with knots, some with studs in their cheeks and even facial tattoos—feeding old pallets and the remains of a mattress into the flames. She’d seen members of their tribe throughout her journey thus far. They were lurking in every town, stalking all the highways. She’d always considered them slightly absurd, but now, in the dark of night, bathed in firelight, they took on a sinister cast.

“Beyoncé!” one hollered, and for some reason the others laughed.

Lucy, that minx, was huddled in the arms of a fat girl with ropy dreadlocks who was barely sober enough to keep herself upright but nevertheless was scratching and petting Lucy expertly, the dog’s hind leg thumping the ground in gratitude.

“Great dog,” the girl said, as Verna appeared at the perimeter of firelight. “What’s her name?”

“Lucy,” Verna said.

“She’s a sweetheart,” the girl said. “You’re a sweetheart, Lucy!”

Verna watched Lucy closely for some spark of affection, but her dog was too engrossed in the young girl’s attention to look up, too busy giving herself away. Lucy panted heavily, her eyes half closed. She had no problem making friends on the road. Across the clearing, a boy had begun scaling the trestle, a beer pinned in his armpit.

The rest of the kids huddled in pairs and threesomes, laughing and scheming among themselves. The darkness outside the fire’s throw of light was impenetrable, but Verna tried to see into it anyway, already plotting escape routes in case the hobo scene turned ugly.

“What is she?” the girl said.

“Part Rhodesian ridgeback, part Lab,” Verna answered.

“What’s the closest store around here?”

“No idea,” Verna said.

“Just passing through?”

“Yeah.”

“Where to?”

Verna saw the query for a ride coming a mile away. “Alaska,” she said, and added, “for work,” as if that might draw some line between them.

“Oh,” the girl said. “I’m going south.” She nodded toward a grimy, well-muscled boy trying to break a two-by-four on his knee. “Ben worked the canneries last year. Hey, Ben! This lady’s going to Alaska!”

“Whoo! King salmon!” the boy called, and kicked his empty beer can into the bushes. He opened a new can with a splash and came trotting over.

“Where you going?” he said.