“Then,” continued Abigail, “you have to think about other skills. Not fighting or direct defense. Anyone who was a therapist or had been in therapy long enough to understand what it means to really listen. Anyone who could tell jokes, sing songs, tell stories, read stories, entertain in any way—they’re important because once the walls are secure and everyone’s fed we all have to get through those long nights, don’t we? We have to have laughter and song because that reminds us of possibilities and it also reminds us that we’re people. Civilized people. If we lose that, then it’s a pretty short step downward into savagery and brutality.”

“That’s brilliant,” I said.

She tried to wave it off, but there was a little bit of a blush on those lined cheeks. “It’s practical, at any rate. I’ve always been like that, even as a little girl. Things should make sense, and if they don’t, then we have to make them make sense.”

“Preaching to the choir, sister,” I said.

Someone grumbled about us making too much noise, so we drifted off to the verge beside the road. She spread out a big blanket and we lay down and looked up at the stars. Baskerville lay between us, dreaming doggie dreams.

“Staying alive has become quite a chore,” said Abigail.

“A bit.”

“You’ve lived a harder life than most. Tell me, does it ever get easier?”

“Easier? Sure. I suppose,” I said. “You develop useful habits of survival. Routine helps with the fear and fills time so you don’t always feel the loneliness. And there’s always something new to learn, or a skill that you can focus on to improve. That lets you be more in your mind and less in your heart.”

She nodded, accepting that. “Have you ever felt in danger of losing all connection to your heart?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “And it would be much easier to be able to reach inside and pull the plug on all emotions. It would make the nights easier to get through.”

“But you haven’t done that . . . ”

“No.”

“I’ve met people who have,” said Abigail. “Out there. Since the end. There are some people who seem genuinely dead inside. Bands of Rovers, I think they’re called. Some loners, too. They seem to have forgotten what it’s like to be human. To feel compassion. All they seem able to feel is greed and hate and lust.”

“Those are emotions,” I pointed out.

“Don’t be pedantic. I’m talking about people who have lost both sympathy and empathy. Who are predators a lot more frightening than the living dead.”

“I know,” I said. “Met more than a few of those.” I told her about the Nu Klux Klan.

“Exactly,” she said. “The end of the world seems to have ended them.”