HE WAS sixteen years old, born and raised in Wyoming, and his name was Julian Henry Perkins. But only grown-ups-his teachers, his foster parents, and his caseworker-ever called him that. At school, on a good day, his classmates called him Julie-Ann. On a bad day, they called him Fuckface Annie. He hated his name, but it was what his mom had chosen for him after she’d seen some movie with a hero named Julian. That was just like his mom, always doing something loopy like calling her son a name no one else had. Or dumping Julian and his sister with their grandfather while she ran off with a drummer. Or, ten years later, suddenly showing up to reclaim her kids after she’d discovered the true meaning of life, with a prophet named Jeremiah Goode.

The boy told all this to Maura as they slowly made their way down the slope, the dog panting after them. A day had passed since they’d watched the fires burning in Kingdom Come; only now did the boy feel it was safe for them to descend into the valley. On her boots, he had strapped a pair of makeshift snowshoes, which he’d crafted using tools scavenged from conveniently unlocked houses in the town of Pinedale. She thought of pointing out to him that this was theft, not scavenging, but she did not think he’d appreciate the difference.

“So what do you want to be called, since you don’t like the name Julian?” Maura asked as they tramped toward Kingdom Come.

“I don’t care.”

“Most people care what they’re called.”

“I don’t see why people need names at all.”

“Is that why you keep calling me ma’am?”

“Animals don’t use names and they get along fine. Better than most people.”

“But I can’t keep saying hey you.”

They walked on for a while, snowshoes creaking, the boy leading the way. He cut a ragged figure, moving across that white landscape, the dog huffing at his heels. And here she was, willingly following those two wild and filthy creatures. Maybe it was Stockholm syndrome; for whatever reason, she’d given up any thoughts of fleeing from the boy. She relied on him for food and shelter, and except for the initial blow on the head that first day, when he’d been frantic to keep her quiet, he had not hurt her. In fact, he’d made no move to even touch her. So she had settled into the wary role of part prisoner, part guest, and in that role she followed him into the valley.

“Rat,” he suddenly said over his shoulder.

“What?”

“That’s what my sister, Carrie, calls me.”

“That’s not a very nice name.”

“It’s okay. It’s from that movie, about the rat who cooks.”

“You mean Ratatouille?”

“Yeah. Our grandpa took us to see it. I liked that movie.”

“I did, too,” said Maura.

“Anyway, she started calling me Rat, because sometimes I’d cook her breakfast in the morning. But she’s the only one ever calls me that. It’s my secret name.”

“So I guess I’m not allowed to use it.”

He walked on for a moment, snowshoes swishing down the slope. After a long silence, he stopped and looked back at her, as if, after much thought, he’d finally come to a decision. “I guess you can, too,” he said, then continued walking. “But you can’t tell anyone.”

A boy named Rat and a dog named Bear. Right.

She was starting to get into the rhythm of walking on snowshoes, moving more easily, but still struggling to keep up with the boy and dog.

“So your mom and sister were living here, in the valley. What about your father?” she asked.

“He’s dead.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Died when I was four.”

“And where’s your grandpa?”

“He died last year.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated automatically.

He stopped and looked back. “You don’t need to keep saying that.”

But I am sorry, she thought, looking at his lonely figure standing against the vast background of white. I’m sorry that the men who loved you are gone. I’m sorry that your mother seems to drop in and out of your life whenever it suits her. I’m sorry that the only one you seem able to count on, the only one who stands by you, has four legs and a tail.

They descended deeper into the valley, entering the zone of destruction. Coming down the ridge, they had caught whiffs of the stench from the burned buildings. With every step they took, the damage appeared more horrifying. Every house had been reduced to blackened ruins, the village devastated as completely as if conquerors had swept through, intent on erasing it from the face of the earth. Except for the creak of their snowshoes, the sound of their breathing, the world was silent.

They came to a halt next to the remains of the house where Maura and her companions had sheltered. Tears suddenly clouded her vision as she stared at charred wood and shattered glass. Rat and Bear moved on down the line of burned homes, but Maura remained where she was, and in that silence she felt the presence of ghosts. Grace and Elaine, Arlo and Douglas, people whom she had not particularly liked, but with whom she had bonded nevertheless. Here they still lingered, whispering warnings from the ruins. Leave this place. While you can. Looking down, she saw tire tracks. This was the proof of arson. While the fires were raging, melting the snow, a truck had left a record of its passage pressed into the now frozen mud.

She heard an anguished cry and turned in alarm. Rat dropped to his knees beside one of the burned houses. As she moved toward him, she saw that he was clutching something in both hands, like a rosary.

“She wouldn’t have left this!”

“What is it, Rat?”

“Carrie’s. Grandpa gave it to her and she never took it off.” Slowly he opened his hands and revealed a heart-shaped pendant, still attached to a strand of broken gold chain.

“This is your sister’s?”

“Something’s wrong. It’s all wrong.” He rose to his feet, agitated, and began digging into the charred remains of the house.

“What are you doing?” asked Maura.

“This was our house. Mom’s and Carrie’s.” He pawed through the ashes, and his gloves were soon black with soot.

“This pendant doesn’t look like it was in the fire, Rat.”

“I found it on the road. Like she dropped it there.” He pulled up a burned timber and with a desperate grunt heaved it aside, scattering ashes.

She looked at the ground, which was now down to bare mud after the heat of the fire had melted the snow cover. The pendant might have been lying here for days, she thought. What else had the snow hidden from them? As the boy continued to attack the ruins of his family’s house, tearing at charred boards, searching for scraps of his lost mother and sister, Maura stared at Carrie’s pendant, trying to understand how something that was cherished could end up abandoned under the snow. She remembered what they’d found inside these houses. The untouched meals, the dead canary.

And the blood. The pool of it at the bottom of the stairs, left to congeal and freeze on the floorboards after the body had been removed. These families didn’t just walk away, she thought. They were forced from their homes with such haste that meals were left behind and a child could not pause to retrieve a treasured necklace. This is why the fires were set, she thought. To hide what happened to the families of Kingdom Come.

Bear gave a soft growl. She looked down at him and saw that he was crouched with teeth bared, his ears laid back. He was looking up toward the valley road.

“Rat,” she said.

The boy wasn’t listening. His attention was focused on digging into the remains of the house where his mother and Carrie had lived.

The dog gave another growl, deeper, more insistent, and the scruff of his neck stood up. Something was coming down that road. Something that scared him.

“Rat.”

At last the boy looked up, filthy with soot. He saw the dog, and his gaze snapped up toward the road. Only then did they hear the faint growl of an approaching vehicle, making its way into the valley.