Shoving a browning apple into my mouth, I moved over to the gun cabinet and tugged open the glass door. I pulled out the rifle. It was a basic Ruger M77 Hawkeye .308. In my hands it felt like home. It was too big to carry back with us, but I loaded it and leaned it into its slot. Even if we were only staying until sundown, I liked knowing that it was there.

When I glanced at Alex, she was turning the bar over in her hands, looking at it but not peeling the wrapper.

She spoke slowly. “You saw that solar-powered generator outside, right?”

“Mmm-hmm,” I said around the apple.

She rose and crossed to the refrigerator. When she opened the freezer door, cool air wafted out. Inside, frozen cuts of venison and elk.

“Maybe we can live like humans again,” she said. “At least for a few hours.”

She lifted a finger and swiped it across my cheek, her print coming away dark with grime. “Shower off. You’re filthy.”

“But—”

“I have a hockey stick, a revolver, a hunting rifle, and I just shot my own dad through the head. So I think I’ll be able to protect us for a few minutes while you clean up.”

I nodded dumbly.

She rooted around in a bureau, found some clean clothes roughly my size, and tossed them at me.

Dropping the Stetson on the bed, I went into the bathroom. The shower stall was tiny, but the hot water felt amazing. Dirt ran down my legs, pooling around the drain. It was hard to believe how much muck came off me—I must’ve looked like a wild animal.

I scrubbed until I was clean, then scrubbed some more. After I toweled off and dressed, I spent a little more time in the mirror than was necessary. Through the tiny window, I saw dusk coming on strong, the mountain air turning grainy.

A delicious scent reached me—cooked meat. After so long eating stale sandwiches and energy bars, I’d almost forgotten what real food smelled like.

When I walked out, the front room was dark. Alex had drawn all the curtains and lit candles on the kitchen table—a smart move to avoid giving us away. As I stepped closer, I saw that she’d put together a full meal with plates and settings and everything. She was already seated, waiting for me.

It was like a romantic dinner.

Except, of course, it wasn’t.

She pointed to the chair opposite. “Sit.”

“Gladly.”

We dug in. Elk in a pepper sauce, rice with cilantro, water with actual ice cubes—I couldn’t remember ever tasting anything so delicious. For a while there was only the peaceful sound of flatware clinking against plates. I sat back and wiped my mouth.

“Nicely done, Blanton,” I said.