IN THE END, the only thing we bring back is what’s left of the few dead scorpions that we found scattered beneath the rubble, and their one surviving victim, Clara.

When we park in front of the school, Sanjay walks with her, quietly asking her questions. I don’t have to ask her anything to know that she just wants to find her husband and kids. Everyone who sees her moves away, looking like they think she’s contagious.

When I get back to our history class, the stench of rotten eggs hits me as soon as I open the door. The windowsills are lined with cartons of old eggs. Somehow, my mother has managed to find a stash of them.

Mom is out. I don’t know what she’s doing or where she is but that’s pretty normal for us.

Paige sits on her cot with her head down so that her hair covers her stitches, and I can almost pretend not to see them. Her hair is as shiny and healthy as any seven-year-old’s. She’s in a flower-print dress, tights, and pink high-top sneakers that dangle over the edge of the cot.

“Where’s Mom?”

Paige shakes her head. She hasn’t said much since we found her.

On a chair beside her cot is a bowl of chicken soup with a spoon sitting in it. Looks like Mom hasn’t had much luck feeding her. When was the last time Paige ate? I pick up the bowl and sit on the chair.

Lifting a spoonful of soup, I move it toward her. But Paige won’t open her mouth.

“Aaand the train goes into the tunnel.” I give her a little clown smile as I push the spoon toward her mouth. “Choo-choo!” It used to work when she was really little.

She peeks up at me and tries to smile. She stops when the stitches begin to crinkle.

“Come on, it’s delicious.” There is meat in it. I had laid down the law and declared that Paige could no longer be a vegetarian as soon as we started having trouble finding food. Maybe that’s what keeps her from trying the soup?

Maybe not.

Paige shakes her head. She’s no longer throwing up, but she’s no longer trying to eat either.

I put the spoon down into the bowl. “What happened when you were with the angels?” I ask as gently as I can. “Can you talk about it?”

She looks at the floor. A tear sparkles on her lashes.

I know she can talk because she’s called me “Ryn-Ryn” like she used to when she was little, and “Mom” or “Mommy.” And “hungry.” She’s said that several times.

“It’s just us. Nobody else is listening. Do you want to tell me what happened?”

She shakes her head slowly, looking at her feet. A tear drops onto her dress.