“Right here,” he says, pointing to a word bubble.

I smile weakly and squint at the page. “Dooms … day.”

Ethan gives me a nod.

“Is he … is he …” I squint at the next word and try to sound it out. It has too many parts that swim around in my head, making the whole too hard to piece together.

I glance at the novel wedged under the mattress that I’ve been trying to read for over a year. Some massive thing called The Stand. I found it in the closet of our last house in a busted black safe. The little book with the bent cover must’ve been worth something a long time ago, probably something to do with the author’s name scratched in red pen on the inside cover.

I close the comic book and set it on Ethan’s nightstand.

“My eyes hurt.” It’s a lie and we both know it, but Ethan nods. “Come on.” I stand up and offer my hand. “Let’s go check the snares. If we’re lucky, we’ll get us a jackrabbit for supper.”

We pull on patched coveralls, thin long-sleeved shirts, hats, thick boots. We’re sweating before we walk out the door, but without the gear the white-hot sun would fry our skin. I snag the hunting rifle, the Winchester single barrel with the battered grip and oiled muzzle (We keep our guns clean, Arn always says) and sling it over my shoulder. I won’t use it unless the coyotes are prowling. Guns ain’t hard to come by, but bullets are. I got my hunting knife in my pocket. I hope to put that to some use.

I lead us through the yard. Ethan shuffles after me, his oversized boots—mine a few years ago—clunking through the dust. We tromp to the barn. Its weathered sides lean left and the roof sags like a deflated piecrust. Arn says the main beams are so solid, it’ll hold for thirty years. Looking at the rotting boards as I enter, I can’t imagine it standing for another three.

I walk through the large, open doors and the air instantly cools. It’s quieter here and even the smell, cow manure and musty hay, won’t bother me for long. Bounty, our cow, moos at me as I walk by. I lean over the rail and rub the black patch on her forehead.

I lead us to the back of the barn. In a dark corner, a tarp-covered shape hunkers near Arn’s workbench. I pull off the tarp and the air thickens. A four-wheeler with a cracked leather seat and worn, nubby tires winks at me beneath the dust. The four-wheeler is off limits. We can’t afford to use fuel for a snare check. I run my hand over the bumpy leather seat and feel a pulling in my chest. One headlight stares out at me, begging me to unleash her.

Ethan slides up behind me. “We gonna take the four-wheeler?”

I can tell by his voice that he’s uneasy. “Thinking about it.” I grip the handlebars, the rubber warm to the touch.