He nodded. “I agree. Wash your hands.”

She looked at the sink doubtfully. “How?”

“How?”

“How do I wash my hands?”

“Oh. Well, you . . .” He stood at the sink, tilting his head one way, then the other. There were no knobs to twist or pumps to push. He vaguely ran his hand around the faucet, then startled when the water started to flow. “Oh.” He leaned down to take a look. There was a shiny . . . something at the base of the faucet that activated the water flow every time he passed his hand in front of it. Like a photoelectric eye, he thought. Like those doors at the mall that opened automatically. The water stopped and he waved his hand over the shiny panel again. More water. “Well, this is new.”

“You said that already, Papa.”

He had? Huh. He actually had. “I think I’ll be saying that a lot in the future.” At least he could figure out the soap. He gave the dispenser a few pumps. “Come over here, Abi-girl.” He wet his hands and got the soap sudsy.

She cast another wary look toward the toilet stall. “It’s clean now? The water?”

He snorted. “Yes, it’s clean. Come on, I’m hungry, too. I need to eat.”

And to sit and think. He needed to find Mercy.

He had no idea where to even start. Everything was so different. He felt like he’d landed on another planet. In a way, he had.

But at least McDonald’s still had Egg McMuffins, so there was that.

TWENTY-TWO

BROKEN TOOTH CAMPGROUND, NEVADA

TUESDAY, APRIL 18, 7:00 A.M.

Ephraim pulled the breakfast burrito from the microwave in the camper he’d taken from the pair of honeymooners, inhaling as he did so. It smelled good and he was hungry and the honeymooners wouldn’t be needing it anymore. He hadn’t eaten a decent meal since leaving MacGuire’s house in Granite Bay, and even though the camper’s bed wasn’t the best, it beat sleeping in MacGuire’s Cadillac as he’d done Sunday night.

He checked the view from the camper’s window, pleased to see that no person or animal had come sniffing around. The honeymooners’ bodies were still safely hidden in the cab of the truck he’d stolen outside Alturas, California. He wouldn’t have killed them if he’d had any other choice, but pickings had been slim. Theirs was the only camper in the campground, probably because it was still too cold for most people to camp.

He figured the campground was all the young lovers had been able to afford—they’d been college students, if their sweatshirts were anything to go by. He’d actually considered hitting another campground when he’d seen their Jeep with Just Married painted over the back window, but he’d been too tired. He’d lost a lot of blood after that asshole Sokolov had shot him. The fight with the New Orleans cop hadn’t helped matters any.