The flashlight skipped as Jake ran lightly down the ramp into the bowl, practiced and effortless. He moved like a young boy.

“Not a skater, huh?” he said.

I pressed my back against the wall. “I didn’t do anything to the meat.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Not yet,” Jake said. He walked across the basin, until he was inches from me. “But everybody’s got to be useful here.”

If I reached for one of my knives, he would see, he would grab me. If I ran past him, he would drag me down, into the ice. I froze. My heartbeat throbbed in my ears and my chest felt tight. There was no exit.

Jake pitched suddenly to the side. His head swung like someone had punched him, a quick flick, eyes rolling back, then he was down.

Whatever had hit him was so fast and surprising I hadn’t even seen it. Only a blur. Then Jake was at the bottom of the basin. He rolled, groaned once, and went still. Blood trickled down his face. A skateboard rolled past before striking the sloped side of the bowl and flipping over, wheels spinning.

I looked up. Above me, Jamey stood on the rim, Starla on her hip. She was glowing, lit by headlights. Her free hand, the one that had thrown the skateboard, clenched into a fist at her side. “Shouldn’t ride without a helmet. Jake always was a damn fool.”

Dance drove, Grayson rode shotgun, and Jamey and I crowded into the back seat.

Starla curled on Jamey’s lap, the girl’s yellow head tucked beneath her mother’s chin. Instantly, whether from exhaustion or stress, Starla fell asleep, though we tore over the hill at a speed that almost made me sick. I knew, from the way the engine strained and the back fishtailed, the house was behind us, somehow, but I didn’t dare to look to see if it was damaged, if it had been ransacked or burned.

Grayson, shouting, tried to navigate: up the hill; around the garage with the girl, the meat, and the grow room. Dance clipped the porch as we passed, and one of the support beams buckled. The whole porch roof slid, like a cake falling off a table. It crashed in the snow and we kept on going.

Out the window, I saw running men and torches of fire, waving flashlights. The men had working batteries, or the foresight to stock up on solar-powered lights. Dogs were barking. Men lunged for our truck, and then when they realized Dance wasn’t going to stop, leaped out the way.

“Why aren’t they driving after us?” I said.

Dance got a little smile on his face. “Not many of their trucks are running now.”