I slapped the hard loaf of bread in my hands like a baseball bat. “This looks really good, Mica. Healthy. Thank you. Can we have the keys to my truck back, please?”

Her eyes snapped away from Dance, shrinking like crow’s eyes. She was not going to act like she wanted anything from us, even her old companion. She passed over the keys and I took them in my free hand. “It was for safekeeping,” she said. “You know the way to the road?”

“We can find it.”

Dance spoke up. “Good luck with your action.”

“It’s not really an action anymore, is it? This is just our life now. It’s just became our life.” Mica turned and went back through the trees. A few steps away from us, she snapped up the hood of her coat. A few paces more and she was gone.

I wondered how long they could make their stand. When the invaders came, would they look like men with shotguns? Or would they drive bulldozers and limousines?

“Thanks for sticking up for us. You didn’t have to do that,” Jamey said. We all looked at her and she looked away. I saw her face switch off again, into nothingness, not being hurt, not feeling. She had sparkly makeup and a dirty face. I remembered thinking the camp would be a good place for her and Starla.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay here?” I asked Dance.

He reached for the truck keys. “I’m sure. This place is doomed.”

We cleared the brush off the truck, stashing some of the camouflage in case we needed it later. We drove back across the fields slowly.

Nothing was chasing us now.

It was getting dark; it was always getting dark. Or maybe it was just going to storm hard. Dance drove. Starla slept in the back over Jamey’s lap. We were quiet and tired. The truck lights swept over the fields, barren and white. Then the lights hit something larger.

“Slow down,” I said. And when he didn’t: “Dance. Stop.”

He hit the brakes hard enough for Starla to wake. In the middle of the field, we halted. Frozen mud and the corn stubble from two years ago made a mush of the ground. There was something moving amid the waste.

Dance turned on the high beams. A figure hurried past the truck. It brushed the side of the hood—so bulky the whole vehicle shuddered.

Grayson leaned over the front seat. “What the—?”

“Cows,” I said.

It was a herd. Large and red and white, with tagged ears and faces like masks. They looked big, but thin. I saw the ribs on one, like a corset spreading wide and sharp under its hide. The cows trudged past us. They were headed, determinedly, elsewhere. I counted a dozen, mostly full grown, a few stunted calves galloping along to keep up.

Then Dance said, “Beef cattle.”