“This crazy lady just saved my life.” I’d called into the woods for twenty minutes before Arden and Lark finally showed themselves. They’d been afraid it was a trap, designed by Fletcher. Following Marjorie’s lead, we’d made our way to the shingled house nestled into the woods, with only a lantern glowing in the window. It was the same light I’d seen when I was running from Fletcher.
Marjorie banged through the kitchen, stacking plates in one hand.
“It’s pretty in here,” Lark said. Her face was still wet, her jumper spotted with patches of red mud. “I like it.”
The couch looked comfortable and the dainty pillows didn’t smell of mildew, the way most post-plague cushions did. Delicate teacups—none of them chipped—and figurines of porcelain children locked together in a dance, or peering through the end of a telescope, filled a cabinet. The long wood dining table sat on the other side of the kitchen counter, decorated with a silver bowl of red, yellow, and green tomatoes.
I thought of the most coveted book in the library, about a little girl named Nancy, who had tutus and barrettes and all the other luxuries we didn’t have at School. When we were little, Pip, Ruby, and I used to curl up in bed together, reading about her family going to an ice cream shop, stopping on the part where she dresses her parents up, putting glasses on her father and a scarf on her mother. It was her house that I’d always loved, the giant sofa they collapsed into, the plants spotting the tables, the dresser that seemed always to be overflowing with clothes and toys. It was a real home, with painted walls and matching furniture. Like this.
The brick fireplace was studded with framed photos. A black-and-white portrait showed a baby girl in a checked pinafore. Another was of a boy in a white suit with a flower through the lapel. Then there was a photo of a young couple in high-waisted pants, their arms threaded through each other’s. The blond woman, just older than I was, held the man’s side, her hand over his heart.
I thought immediately of Caleb. He was out there somewhere, believing what he did. He was holding me in his memory, the way I shook his hand from my arm, my uncertainty when he’d asked me about Leif. He was out there without me.
“I see we have visitors.” A silver-haired man climbed down the stairs, heaving one leg with great effort. He was even older than Marjorie, his flannel shirt tucked loosely into his pants, which were white at the knees, the tan fabric worn from overuse. Lark startled at the sight of him, and I realized that a few weeks ago, I would have done the same. After so much time with Caleb—riding behind him on his horse or walking beside him in the woods—I didn’t scare the way I once did.
Marjorie knelt down by the fire and scooped a spoonful of berries onto each plate. “I found them in the woods. Some savage was trying to kill them.” She stared at Otis a moment too long. I sensed something had gone unspoken.
“What were you doing out there?” Otis pulled a chair from the dining room, its legs scraping against the beaten wood floor, and sat down beside us.
Lark’s eyes welled. “This man, Fletcher, captured us. He was taking us somewhere to be sold.” As she said it, she tucked her thick black hair behind her ears, her fingers shaking.
“We’re from the Schools,” Arden added. “We escaped.”
Marjorie passed me a plate of steaming berries and I breathed in the tangy smell. The china had tiny purple roses along the rim. It was a welcome contrast to the simple metal saucers we’d eaten off at School and the gouged wood bowls Caleb had given us in the dugout. “How long have you been on your own?” Marjorie asked.
“Four days,” Lark said.
Marjorie pointed to Arden and me.
I swallowed the berries. “I’m not sure . . . a few weeks?”
“Yes,” Marjorie said. “It’s hard to keep track of time out here on your own.” As she spoke her eyes darted back to Otis. “Where are you headed then?”
Arden glanced sideways at me and paused. I raised one shoulder in a slight shrug. It was dangerous to trust anyone out here, but Marjorie had just saved my life. “We were going to follow Route eighty, to the place called Califia,” Arden said, poking at her food with her fork.
“Smart girls,” Otis said. Now that he was sitting down, his pant legs came above his ankles, revealing a wooden right leg. I stared at the light grain, the crudely cut corner that formed the ankle, burying a wedge deep into the pocket of his shoe. It looked like it had been carved from a downed tree limb. “And how do you plan to get there?”
“We’ve lost the road now,” I said. “I don’t know.”
Lark shoveled the berries into her mouth, starved.
Marjorie glanced one more time at Otis. Then she stood, walking slowly to the lantern in the window. She picked it up and blew out the candle. “I do.”
My gaze fell on the shelves behind her, where a black metal radio sat, a handset perched on its side.
“The Trail,” I said out loud, to no one in particular.
Otis pointed to the floor. “Yes, you’re on it right now.”