There was no way to draw back now, Barry knew. They had to have the supplies that were in the big cities, or die. That was the alternative they had. The toll had been too high, and he knew no way to reduce it. Special training had helped a little, but not enough. Sending groups of brothers and sisters had helped, but not enough. So far in the four trips downriver, they had lost twenty-two people, and another twenty-four had been affected by the ordeal, perhaps permanently affected, and through them their families. Thirty-six of them this time. They were to stay out until frost, or until the river started its usual fall rise, whichever was first.

Some of them were to build a bypass around the falls; some would dig a canal to link the Shenandoah to the Potomac to avoid the danger of the rough water they now had to face with each trip. Two groups were to go back and forth between the falls and Washington and bring out the supplies that had been found the previous year. One group was on river patrol, to clear the rapids that the capricious rivers renewed each winter.

How many would return this time? Barry wondered. They would stay out longer than any of the others had; their work was more dangerous. How many?

"Having a building at the falls will help," Lewis said suddenly. "It was the feeling of being exposed that made it particularly bad."

Barry nodded. It was what they all reported—they felt exposed, watched. They felt the world was pressing in on them, that the trees moved closer as soon as the sun set. He glanced at Lewis, forgot what he had started to say, and instead watched a tic that had appeared at the corner of his mouth. Lewis was clenching his fists; he stared at the dwindling boats, and the tic jerked and vanished, jerked again.

"Are you all right?" Barry asked. Lewis shook himself and looked away from the river. "Lewis? Is anything wrong?"

"No. I'll see you later." He strode away swiftly.

"There's something about being in the woods in the dark especially that has a traumatic effect," Barry said later to his brothers. They were in the dormitory room they shared; at the far end, apart from them, sat Mark, cross-legged on a cot, watching them. Barry ignored him. They were so used to his presence now that they seldom noticed him at all, unless he got in the way. They usually noticed if he vanished, as he frequently did.

The brothers waited. That was well known, the fear of the silent woods.

"In training the children to prepare for their future roles, we should incorporate experience in living in the woods for prolonged periods. They could start with an afternoon, then go to an overnight camping expedition, and so on, until they are out for several weeks at a time."