Marley’s eyes were wet as she stuttered out huh after huh. Like she was genuinely asking, Will you be our mother? Why aren’t you our mother? But Marley thought Coco was a fat, stupid robot.

Coco flattened down so her chest met the grass and no one could strike her. She stuck her nose in the dirt, facing a smudge of brown. A twig landed on her back so lightly it was loving. She’d survive, no matter what.

When the massacre ended, all but a handful of pioneers had died. Alex was alive, having evaded the tribe under a wagon. Devon, the Bell patriarch, was also alive, as were a few scattered matriarchs and patriarchs. All the children were dead.

The band met in the center of the field, which was littered with arrows. Only seven pioneers remained.

“How far do we have left?” asked Coco.

“Shut up, ox,” said Alex. “Oxen don’t discuss.”

Coco shielded her eyes from the sun. The path swung through a patch of milkweed around to the front of the school. The markers were farther apart the longer you traveled the Oregon Trail. The teachers must’ve run low on cones.

“We need rations,” the Blackthorn matriarch said. “We’re starving.”

“Get your rations then,” said Alex.

“We don’t have any,” said the Blackthorn matriarch.

“Yeah,” said a kid in another class. “We don’t got none.”

“Well, you can’t have ours.” Alex turned to Coco. “Ox, guard the rations.”

“But they’re hungry.” Coco didn’t get what the big deal was. She wasn’t hungry, but if other pioneers were, they should eat. The Culvers had so much food, albeit dry, flavorless food.

“No,” said Alex. “They’re fine.”

“We’re hungry,” said the Blackthorn family matriarch.

“We’re hungry,” said Devon.

Devon and the Blackthorn matriarch approached the Culver family wagon. “We’re hungry,” they chanted. “We’re hungry, hungry, hungry.” The other living party members joined the chant.

“Wait,” said Coco. “We’ll never eat all this.” Devon and the Blackthorn matriarch had been nasty to her in the past, but so had almost everyone at Bridge at some point. Coco tore off a chunk of loaf and held it out to Devon, who jammed it in his mouth. Alex grabbed Coco’s wrist.

“That’s Culver family food,” he said. “Not ox food. Not community food.”

Alex twisted Coco’s wrist as if to snap it off her body and throw it into the wagon for an extra ration.

“You’re gay,” he said. He smirked at Devon and they laughed.

“I know, right?” said Devon.

“You’re worse than gay,” Alex said. “You’re not even a person. You’re an ugly ox with ox balls. You’re a gross animal.”

The party chanted, “An-i-mal, an-i-mal.” Coco backed up against the wagon as they approached.

Gripping the bread as a shield, Coco wondered if she actually was an animal. That explained why she didn’t feel like anyone else at school. She certainly wasn’t normal.

The party closed in. Kids held rocks above their heads, the broken handle of a wagon, a bent length of hula hoop, a torn sheet flapping in the air. “An-i-mal,” they said. “An-i-mal.”