The kids were tumbling in and out of a parked van. It had ice molded to the sides of it, flat tires, and a blue glow that was familiar, and also strange to see again: a TV, hooked up to a generator. It blared cartoons. Whatever they were watching, it had to be a DVD. I was pretty sure TV stations weren’t on the air anymore. I saw something written on the side of the van...

Then I was surrounded by women.

“Do you need food? Do you need shelter?”

“Gas,” I said. “We need gas. We can pay.”

“Are you hungry? Are you in any danger?”

“Are you running from anyone?”

The women had lanterns and flashlights. It felt like being swarmed by fireflies. But one of the women spoke with a musical voice, high and light. I recognized that voice. It both blended and rose above the ones. I parted the women, trying to get a glimpse of the face in the light.

It was her. It was her. It had to be.

Why was she here? How had the boy led me to her? It felt like a year had passed, maybe longer—but it had not been even a season; there were no seasons. I thought of us lying side by side in our sleeping bags, when camping was fun, not survival, just something we did in her room or the backyard. I thought of us running deep into the woods behind her house, branches slapping us, my face stung with tears, when I told her about Lobo: losing my mama to him, his anger, the basement room. There was nothing to do after that but go home. I thought of boys vying for her attention, pulling her hair, flicking notes at her on the youth group trips while I looked down at my hands, rough from work, scratched from stems and the trimming shears. There was nothing to do.

It was her. Lisbeth.

Her face looked both older and younger at the same time. Lines marked her face, fine as telephone wire. She had dark circles; we all did. Hair straggled out of a braid under her hat. When I hugged her, I felt the sharpness of her bones.

“What are you doing here?” Lisbeth said.

“We’re on the way to California. Following my mama.”

“Your mama? Who’s we?”

“What are you doing here?”

There were so many questions, only questions.

Lisbeth stepped back, and I saw the town clearer. Fires burned in barrels along the path, their sides corroded like lace. People had been told there was a visitor, a stranger to the camp, and they were coming out of the little houses. Many of the windows were broken, I noticed, patched with cardboard and plywood. Rags were stuffed in the holes in the house siding. Gutters had fallen down, packed with frozen moss. A few houses had trees growing through the rotten shingles. The saplings’ growth was stunted now.