Outside on the concrete walkway, off to the side of the store, they take their packs off, dividing up what she bought, loading everything up. What they need is a place to crash. To lie low, rest up, and figure out when they’ll try to hop the next train. Cinnamon tells them, “I know a place that’s secluded. Plenty of space. Kinda out of the way.”

“We’ll follow you,” Anne says.

After walking and hitching, on the far side of town, they wait until it’s nearly dark to enter an abandoned property posted with No Trespassing signs. A hundred yards from the gate stands a once-splendid house that has fallen into disrepair.

“It’s an old mansion,” Cinnamon tells Anne.

Slipping through the rusted iron gate, they follow a road of fractured asphalt crumbling into gravel. Rank weeds and grass are hastening the process.

Standing in front of the mansion. The walls are constructed of flat rock in various colors of tan, gray, and clay red. Windows are blacked-out squares framed in white. The grass is knee high around the perimeter. Going around back, they scale a wall and drop into what was once a flower garden, its brick beds now filled with brown weeds and dried-out earth. No one is around. Canary helps the twins up and over the wall, Anne and Trot catching them. Then Canary drops down beside them. Everything is desolate. Dead. They walk to a short flight of stone steps that lead up to a broad patio where doors used to be. They go in.

Beyond the entranceway, they find themselves in a cavernous room in a state of decay and decline. A staircase leads up into shadow. Everyone wants to explore, but it’s almost dark. And rest is what everyone needs.

They settle on the third and highest floor, next to a window where they can keep watch, just in case. They shed their packs and sip their water. Munch on snacks. Wanting sleep.

Cinnamon tells Anne, “We rest six or eight hours. Try to head out at first light. Head back to the tracks to, hopefully, catch out.”

“Sounds good. Where you think we’ll be headed?”

“Maybe Arizona or Mexico. Who knows? We’ll figure it out.”

“How you know about this place?”

“Crashed here a few trips. Been a while. It’s really going to shit.”

“Shame. All this space could be used for something important.”

Cinnamon laughs. “Listen to you. Like what?”

“I don’t know, someplace to help out people like us, maybe. Bad home life, nowhere to go. Need a place to stay, reconnect, figure life out.”

Canary says, “I like that idea.”

Trot asks Cinnamon, “What was this place?”

“Lot of rumors. Some say it belonged to a drug lord who got busted. Died in prison. Then I heard a husband and wife built their dream home. Went bankrupt, got divorced, and never completed the construction.”