I made my body move, close the door. I had done this before, willed my body into action: in the truck with the boys from the bar, in my loft. Mindlessly, rotely, I belted myself in. I put the truck into gear. I drove. Just drove.

Straight ahead, slowly. I didn’t look back.

“Let’s get out of town,” Jamey said. “Get on a highway already.”

The engine was comforting, its rattling purr. I heard the rustle of Jamey settling into her seat, a sigh from Starla in the back. Then we were out of sight of the little houses. The trees were a tangle that hid the access road to the town. The Church didn’t need camouflage to hide their camp. Maybe it would all be fine. I tried not to imagine everything burning.

I saw a blur in the rearview and felt my heart jag. Grayson or Lisbeth, come to call us back?

No.

It was a little girl. She was dressed as a rabbit in a fuzzy, full-body suit. A Halloween costume. Either The Church had run out of warm winter things, or she had persuaded her minders to let her wear it. It had long ears that wouldn’t stay up, a hole for her face.

I kept driving, but slowly, in case she darted forward. She followed behind us until our tires hit the main road, then she stopped. Some invisible line halted her, some mental fence. Someone had yelled at her or hurt her for going farther. She believed them; she was afraid of them. She looked like a magical creature, guarding the town.

I didn’t want to speed up until I saw her turn around, until I saw her at least start for home. The truck idled.

“What?” Jamey said. “Did you forget something? Why aren’t we going?”

The little girl just stood there. She didn’t turn around. She just watched us. I looked back at Starla, but she was asleep.

We got used to things. After our first night alone as a trio, the days developed a rhythm, as they had back on the farm. We drove, stopping often because Starla needed to run around and stretch her legs, and because the sight of too many cars now made me nervous. A few cars were okay, but a caravan with tires roped to bike racks, gas cans strapped to roofs, scorch marks or spray paint—meant people organizing, traveling together: groups with an agenda. And a leader. Groups meant trouble. A leader meant power. People together could not be trusted. Our house would draw attention, attract too many questions.