I nodded.

“Okay,” Gran said.

Aunt May fussed like a broody hen as she led me to the mudroom and helped me into the layers of protective clothing. “Don’t exert yourself out there, Nyle,” she warned. “Don’t stay out too long. And don’t go beyond the pond.”

I walked out the farmhouse door, taking in the familiar view, the wide, snow-covered valley. The protective boots hindered me, as did the suit. The mask, carefully set over my face by Aunt May, made breathing hard. But it was good to be out.

I walked toward the pond. I always loved that pond. I learned to swim there. Uncle Lemmy had built a floating dock, a big one, so the whole family could fit on at once. I remembered the shouts of summer, the feel of bare feet on the grass, in the pond mud, on the splintery boards of the dock.

My cousins Lou and Maxine had looked terrified when I asked them to come out with me.

I headed back toward the barns. Three long barns, identical, connected to each other by covered pathways. Red barns, the American flag painted over the door of each one. Every year, a different cousin touched up the flags with a small brush, keeping them fresh and bright.

Fog crept down the valley as I watched.

I turned toward the road, now blocked off just around the bend with concrete barriers. Two soldiers in radiation suits stood guard in shifts, never leaving the barricade unattended. Used to be a steady flow of traffic ran up and down the highway. Now, even if they could get through, no one dared. Not heading south, into the contaminated zone. Not heading north out of it. Stationing soldiers there kept looters from going in and bringing out radioactive goods to sell on the black market. The soldiers helped the occasional straggler too, stumbling out of the dead zone on foot.

Uncle Lemmy’s farm sat on the very border of death. The road had died, just as the farm had died, just as Aunt May and Uncle Lemmy and my cousins were dying.

My bones ached. Maybe from the weight of the suit, maybe from the change in temperature. I looked north toward the advancing wall of fog.

Walking into the first barn, empty but for the pair of ewes we’d brought with us, I remembered how it used to be. The barns once boomed with the stomp and low of cows. Now only my footsteps echoed. And the lonely bleating of two pregnant sheep. Old smells clung to the splintery barn boards: sweet clover, baled hay, the earthy stench of cows. Ghost smells.

How much could Aunt May and Uncle Lemmy take, losing their farm, their livelihood, maybe even their children?

The government had dishonored Uncle Lemmy. Said he was trying to collect on other people’s misfortunes. Trying to ride the coattails of the accident. Told him he should be ashamed with so much genuine suffering and loss. That there was nothing wrong with his farm.