“Do it then,” a voice says, a man, from across the shop. “If you’re armed, shoot me.”

At the sound of his voice, Malorie’s mind goes cold. She’s not looking, but is he?

“I’ll shoot you,” Tom says.

“Tom…” Malorie starts, but she stops herself.

“I mean it,” the man says. “Do it. I’m a day away from opening my eyes outside anyway. You’d save me the complications of suicide.”

Malorie believes she recognizes sanity in his voice. But she can’t be sure. And she won’t let herself decide.

“Get out,” she repeats.

“I’ve been living by the side of this road for two years,” he says. “I heard you enter Dabney’s.”

“Tom,” Malorie says, “Olympia, do not speak to this man. Do not open your eyes.”

“I’m not crazy,” the man says. He sounds young, younger than Malorie, older than the teens. “I’m just really not well. But I’ve survived. Like you have.”

“Get out.”

Silence. A scoff? A smile? She doesn’t ask.

“But I don’t want to,” the man says. “I want to make contact. Don’t you?”

“We have enough,” Olympia says.

“Olympia…”

“Do you?” the man asks. “I have nobody. I heard you guys, I came in.”

“While we were sleeping,” Malorie says. “Get out now.”

“Yeah, I waited for you to fall asleep because I didn’t know if you were any more dangerous than you think I am.”

“We’re dangerous,” Malorie says. “Get out.”

Silence. Malorie makes fists of her hands.

“All right,” the man says.

“Now.”

But Malorie knows they won’t be spending the night here now. No matter what this man does, she’s going to instruct the teens to gather their things and they’re going to leave this place. They’ll walk, paranoid, through the dark of night. And even in the new world, a walk at night feels less safe than one during the day.

“Let me leave you with something,” the young man says.

“Don’t open your eyes,” Malorie tells the teens.

“Just some words, okay? I want you three to know that the world isn’t gonna get any better. We gotta start over.”

“You said ‘three,’ ” Malorie says. “Your eyes are open.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m not the only one.”

“Close your eyes,” she hisses at the teens.

Her hands in fists, she steels herself. Her parents flash like fire in her mind, names in St. Ignace, taken by the winds of the Straits of Mackinac, blown across Lake Michigan. Lost to her.

Again.

“GET OUT!”

Her voice is almost unrecognizable to herself. She sounds like a woman who has endured years of tension, paranoia, and loss.

And so she is.

The man doesn’t answer. But the door opens and closes.

“Tom?” Malorie asks.

“He’s walking away,” Tom says.

“Olympia?”

“Yes, he’s leaving.”