Her cheeks were flushed and streaked with dried, slimy tears. She stayed asleep, despite my rustling. She looked so much like Jamey. It wasn’t the baby’s blood on the blankets, I realized. It was her mama’s.

What would I tell Starla when she woke up?

The backpack had slumped on the floor, where it had fallen from my shoulders when we entered the greenhouse. I bent down and unzipped it. I pulled out a makeup case with a star-shaped glittery key chain tied to the zipper, and a paperback novel, yellow and waterlogged; I didn’t recognize the title. I flipped to the back of the book. There was an inked library stamp. From a junior high school.

The only other thing in the backpack was a bag of powdered sugar.

I looked around the greenhouse. The seeds were tender, the heater blared. The people in the hilltop camp would come back here to check on their plants first thing in the morning. Starla wouldn’t be alone—if it came to that, if I didn’t come back—for long.

“I have to go back for your mama,” I whispered. “I have to try.”

From around my neck, I took the leather pouch of seeds. Seeds from the Pumpkin King, from the flea market, from the burned farm, from Jamey. Pumpkin, millet, corn, apple, pepper. Almost enough for a garden. A new start. The cord was black with dirt, and the pouch reeked of road salt. I laid it at Starla’s feet.

The sun hung low, and as I shut the door on the greenhouse, letting the tarp settle back down after me, it started to snow—the kind of snow that didn’t announce itself with white light. The air didn’t smell sharp; the snow didn’t come from clouds that had gathered, lowing like cows, all day. This snow just appeared in the air like it had been conjured, as sudden as buckshot or tears.

I hoped the snow wouldn’t cover up my tracks. I had to find my way back to the greenhouse. I remembered my mama’s stories of the blizzard, the woman disappearing. I didn’t have a rope to lead me. I didn’t even have a flashlight anymore.

I cast one more look back, and then I ran. Down the hill. I didn’t glance behind me again. I listened but did not hear Starla waking and crying, or anyone coming down from the camp on the hilltop. I passed the washing machine. Another hill. I was close. Snow got into my eyes. My feet felt frozen. There was slush inside my boots.

Then I could hear Jake and his man.

I hadn’t even doubted that I would find the truck again, find Jamey—and there the men were. They had not left the scene.