We had gone through a train tunnel. The tracks had rusted and been torn up years ago, long before the first lost spring. But the old brick tunnel remained. It might be here forever, I thought, through a hundred winters, bearing the snow on its humped back. At the top of the entrance was a little keystone, with a date I drove under too fast to read. There were things in the tunnel, junk in the shadows lining both sides, between the walls and the road. I saw an old van parked along my side. Other objects flashed out of the dimness: what looked like chicken wire, trash.

Jamey said she saw a big cord of firewood. She thought we should go back for it.

“It’s somebody’s wood, Jamey,” I said.

“I didn’t see anybody in that tunnel. Did you?”

“Well, they’re obviously storing it there.”

“What if they don’t need the wood?”

“How could they not need it?” I said. “It’s freezing.”

“Maybe they died.”

I ignored her.

“What if we take it and leave money for it?”

“I thought you said money didn’t have value?” I didn’t want to start taking if we didn’t have to. She had stolen the sugar. We had stolen—though paid for—gas and snacks. We were going to have to start taking a lot more. We were out of deer and potatoes. “We’re completely capable of chopping our own wood,” I said. “What if somebody’s sick and they can’t?”

We were through the tunnel. Wooded hills rose up on either side of the road, and through the branches I thought I glimpsed something winking in the dull sun. A sparkle, like light on glass. I thought I could see a little house.

“Jamey,” I said. “Can you see what’s on that hill?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“I can’t look because I’m driving. Is there a greenhouse up there?”

“Looks like it,” she said.

Was it possible all its windows weren’t broken?

“Looks like a camp on the hill. Another group.” She fell silent for a moment, then she said: “It looks nice, Wil. Real nice.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Like a good place.”

I shot a look at her. Her head was firmly turned away from me, staring through the glass.

“You can’t tell that from here,” I said.

“Well, I don’t hear screaming. Or gunshots. That’s a good sign.”

“Jamey, it’s too soon to stop.” I wasn’t ready to give up, not yet.

“But what if this is the last good place?”

“The truck is driving fine,” I said. “We have those oranges now. And we still have food from The Church. Canned spaghetti, meat. I saw some peaches in there. In syrup.”

I realized Jamey had stopped arguing. I glanced in the rearview, but Starla slept on. “What’s wrong?” I looked at the side mirror.