Peter gently freed the body from her arms. Caleb’s eyes were closed, his body motionless where it lay in the dust. He was still wearing the yellow sneakers—one of the laces had come untied—but the boy he was, was nowhere. Caleb was gone. For a long moment, nobody said anything. The only sounds were the birds and the wind in the tips of the grass and Alicia’s damp, half-choked breathing.

Then, in a sudden burst, Alicia shot to her feet, snatched Jude’s pistol from the ground, and strode to where Olson was sitting on the dirt. A furious look was in her eyes. The gun was huge, a long-barreled revolver. As Olson looked up, squinting at the dark form looming over him, she reared back and struck him across the face with the butt of the gun, knocking him flat to the ground, cocked the hammer with her thumb, and aimed the barrel at his head.

“Goddamn you!”

“Lish—” Peter stepped toward her, his hands raised. “He didn’t kill Caleb. Put the gun down.”

“We saw Jude die! We all saw it!”

A trickle of blood was running from Olson’s nose. He made no motion to defend himself or move away. “He was familiar.”

“Familiar? What does that mean? I’m sick of your double-talk. Speak English, goddamnit!”

Olson swallowed, licking the blood from his lips. “It means … you can be one of them without being one of them.”

Alicia’s knuckles were white where she clutched the butt of the revolver. Peter knew she was going to fire. There seemed no stopping this; it was simply what was going to happen.

“Go ahead and shoot if you want.” Olson’s face was impassive; his life meant nothing to him. “It doesn’t matter. Babcock will come. You’ll see.”

The barrel had begun to waver, driven by the current of Alicia’s rage. “Caleb mattered! He was worth more than your whole fucking Haven! He never had anyone! I stood for him! I stood for him!”

Alicia howled, a deep animal sound of pain, and then she pulled the trigger—but no shot came. The hammer fell on an empty chamber. “Fuck!” She squeezed again and again; the gun was empty. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Then she turned to Peter, the useless pistol dropping from her hand, leaned into his chest, and sobbed.

In the morning, Olson was gone. Tracks led away into the culvert; Peter didn’t have to look to know which way he was headed.

“Should we go look for him?” Sara asked.

They were standing by the empty train, assembling the last of their gear.

Peter shook his head. “I don’t think there’s any point.”