“It’s really coming down,” Muncie said. “How many inches do you think we have already?”

I looked out the window.

“How many you think, Nyle?”

I watched the snow fall outside Muncie’s living-room window, large, grayish flakes drifting softly past the glass. “I don’t know.”

We carded wool until lunchtime. Muncie eyed the short, neat hanks proudly. “Look how much we did.”

“Mostly how much you did,” I said. “You’re good at this, Muncie.”

Muncie acted silly, clumping around to hide her pleasure.

“Let’s start spinning right after lunch,” she said.

“I can’t. I need to get home early this afternoon. There’s always extra chores after a snow.”

Muncie pulled me into her bedroom, a room not much bigger than a closet. I sat on the edge of her spread. Shelves ran along each wall beneath the windows. And on all of those shelves were books, hundreds of books. Like a real library.

“Is your grandmother sick?” Muncie asked. “Is that why you’re spending so much time in your house? Is that why you keep that curtain closed?”

I turned away so she couldn’t see my face. “Gran, sick?” I shook my head.

“Then tell me. If your grandmother’s not sick, what’s going on at your house that you don’t have time for me anymore?”

I thought about Ezra struggling back. I didn’t dare say anything to jinx him. The Harrises were getting along all right. They weren’t in such a hurry to leave anymore. But if I told them about Ezra, that might change everything.

“It’s just something I can’t talk about.”

Muncie looked crushed. I wanted to tell her. I wanted to talk about Ezra so much, my throat ached. But if I told, Mr. and Mrs. Harris wouldn’t let me near Muncie. And they might tell everyone else about the Trents too. They weren’t the only ones afraid of evacuees. And these evacuees in particular, the widow and son of the man who ran the power plant. I didn’t want anyone to know.

I looked out the window at the snow. “Do you ever think about the people from the Cookshire accident,” I asked, “the people who are homeless now, and sick with radiation?”

“Mutants,” Muncie said, an ugly edge to her voice.

I spun around to face her.

“Muncie!”

Muncie sounded angry. “They’re dangerous. My parents said so. Just being near one could kill you. They have so much radiation in their bodies, they glow.”

“No they don’t!” I said.

Muncie rocked over to the opposite corner of her room.

“Yes they do. I hope I never see one.”

“They’re not dangerous,” I said. “They’re sick, and alone. They need help.”

“Ripley says if I ever met one of those mutants from the accident, I’d mutate too. I’d get shorter and uglier than I already am.”

“Stop it,” I said. “You don’t believe what he says. I know you don’t. You’re no mutant and neither are the people from the accident.”

“Since when are you an authority?” Muncie asked.