From one of the tents, a man appears. He is older than the others in the encampment. Windblown hair parted on the side, matted and wavy, some of it braided. Tattoos on his cheek, silver hoop through his nose. His hands thick with crud. Stretched and stained T-shirt. He eyes Cinnamon and yells, “You’re back! Been gone too long, my dear. Still lovely, as always.”

Arms spread wide, she and Dredd embrace. She says, “Travel sometimes takes us back to our roots, only to return us to our real home.”

“And you’ve brought friends,” he says. “Introduce me.”

“This is Anne and Trot. They caught out from Tennessee.”

“Welcome,” Dredd tells them. “Make yourselves at home. Everyone is accepted here. We all chip in and earn our way. We’re one big family.”

“Billy the Kid has some rabbit stew over on the fire. Help yourselves.”

Making eye contact with Cinnamon, Anne says, “I’m fine right now.”

What Anne wants is rest. To sleep. But her body is rushing with excitement. Seeing the faces of people her age. Thinking of how she came here and what it took. Her home, her life—it suddenly seems a million miles away. Like a separate existence, another incarnation. She feels as if she has stepped into a time warp. An alternate universe.

Cinnamon walks over to the table. Trot follows. They grab used paper bowls and head toward a young man stirring a pot on a metal oven rack over glowing orange coals.

Anne starts to follow, when Dredd grabs her arms. He says, “Let’s talk.”

A bit startled, not knowing what to say, Anne nods her head. “Oh, okay.”

Pulling her over to the edge of the clearing, Dredd sits her down on a fallen log. His wild blond mane is shot through with gray. The silver circle through his nose reminds her of a bull’s nose ring. He’s thin. She looks down at the crud-caked fingernails resting on her knee. They migrate to her thigh. His T-shirt hangs lank from his bony shoulders. His eyes look as if he had on liner, but it’s just dirt from not bathing. He smells like onions and old sweat.

“Your name is Anne?”

“Yes.”

“You’re very lovely. We’ll have to create you a moniker.”

Anne says, “Thanks. What do you mean by a ‘moniker’?”

“Your freight-hopping name.” He pauses, then starts peppering her with questions. “Tennessee was home?”

“Yeah.”

“Why’d you run away?” He speaks as if he were speed dating. A rush of sentences.

“It was a shitbox. Mom’s a drunk. Dad was abusive. And school was loaded with dedicated half-wit assholes.”

His hands constantly shift. Touching her arm, her leg, as if she were an instrument he was tuning.