“Run into any trouble on the way?” I asked.

Ty looked down and sighed, his expression troubled. After a pause, he said, “No. The rest of the trip was pretty uneventful.”

I almost said, Well that’s good, but then a gear turned over in my head and the thoughts of my father, Blake, and Lauren that I had kept tightly under wraps all this time finally broke free. My feet went numb. A weight pressed against my chest as if to smother me. Someone could have poured ice down my back and I would not have noticed. I placed the cup on the ground in front of me so my shaking hand would not spill the precious water.

I said, “Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

My ears rang. The same ringing I had heard when I found Lauren’s cold body. The ringing I heard after the firefight that claimed Dad and Blake. The ringing that stayed in my ears for days after Mike and Sophia pulled enough shrapnel out of me to cover a dinner plate.

“Mike, did you tell him?”

The big man nodded. “Yeah. I told him.”

The shaking spread from my hands to my arms and onward to the rest of me. I could hear each individual heartbeat, the pressure building to a crescendo behind my eyes. I felt like a ship tied loosely to a dock that finally slipped its moorings and began drifting inexorably out to sea.

I looked at Tyrel. “So if we’d just stayed with the convoy …”

He spread his hands and said nothing.

I started laughing. I don’t know why. It grew louder and louder until I fell out of my chair and lay on the ground rolling back and forth, holding my sides, tears pouring down the edges of my face. Mike stood up and closed the front doors.

Tyrel got his hands under me and tried to sit me down, but I shoved him away and walked over to a little square mirror mounted to the wall. I put my hands on either side of the glass and looked at the man staring back. He had a blond beard, hair flopping down in greasy strings over bloodshot eyes, grin like a skull, livid red scars marring the left side of his face, and I hated every inch of him.

I raised a fist and smashed the mirror once, twice, three times, and then strong hands hauled me to the ground and held me there until I screamed and thrashed myself to stillness. Someone dragged my boots off, laid me on something soft, and put a blanket over me. I stared at the roof of the container, voices speaking close to me but at a great distance, like an echo across an ocean. Some part of me told me I should respond, but I could not work up the willpower.

Later, when the darkness came, it was overwhelming, and complete, and I welcomed it and let it take me under and begged it to never let me wake up.

*****

Morning.

It was Sunday, my day off. I pushed my blankets aside, sat up, and looked around. Sophia was asleep beside me.

Mike had charged his windup survival lantern and sat in front of his pack, weapons and equipment laid out before him in neat rows, hands busy in the hazy white light. I got up, grabbed a chair, and took a seat across from him.

“Sorry about yesterday,” I said.

“How’s your hand?”

Puzzled, I looked down. There was a swath of gauze wrapped around my knuckles like a boxer’s fist wraps. I flexed my fingers a few times, wincing at the pain. “How bad is it?”

“You bruised your knuckles pretty good, and there were a few cuts. Nothing that needed stitches, though. Sophia cleaned the wounds and wrapped your hands.”

I looked at her. “I’ll have to thank her when she wakes up.”

Mike grunted. We sat in silence for a while, the big Marine packing his rucksack and me watching him, until I asked, “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

He stopped and put his hands in his lap. “Yes.”

“Oregon?”

A nod. “I hate to leave you kids, but …”

“You need to find your wife.”

Another nod.

“It’s okay, Mike.”

He looked up at me. “Is it? I mean, after what happened yesterday … are you sure you’re gonna be all right?”

“I think it’s out of my system now. Besides, now that Tyrel knows where we live, I figure he’ll look in on us from time to time.”

He looked relieved. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“So when are you heading out?”

“There’s a caravan leaving tomorrow morning. Salvage merchants. I signed on as a guard. They’re headed north to Wyoming, then west across Idaho.”

“Isn’t that the same path as the Oregon Trail?”

“Close to it, yeah.”

I heard a rustling to my right and turned to see Sophia sitting up in her bedroll, hair tousled, face puffy with sleep. “What time is it?” she asked.

I glanced at my watch. “Just after eight.”

Her eyes scanned the two of us in the gloom, then settled on Mike’s belongings arranged on the floor. A few still seconds passed before she stood up, stepped around us, and opened the front doors. I winced at the invasion of harsh yellow light.

She said, “I’ll make breakfast.”

FORTY-EIGHT

Later that morning, Tyrel met us at our place. He walked with us to the caravan district, formerly known as the Colorado Springs Country Club.

Gone were the expensive manicured grass, sand traps, and putting greens. All trod under by boots, hooves, and off-road tires. Where golfers had once whiled away afternoons and weekends whacking away at little white balls, traders and merchants now camped surrounded by trailers, horses, jeeps, Toyota Land Cruisers, 4x4 pickups, wagons, RVs, and even a few Humvees.

One of the Humvees belonged to Mike, parked along with several other vehicles and a collection of pilfered U-Haul trailers. He had agreed to take his payment in the form of diesel, and would follow the caravan as far as I-5. There, he would turn north to begin his search.

We stopped outside the caravan’s picketed area and waited while Mike went to talk to the trail boss. The camp was abuzz with activity, rugged-looking men and women rolling up sleeping bags, striking tents, cleaning cookware, packing things away, and a few teenagers fueling up the vehicles. A couple of minutes passed before Mike came back.

“Bossman says they’ll be ready to go in ten. I better get my gear squared away.”

Sophia wiped her face and put her arms around her father’s neck. “You take care of yourself, old man. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Don’t you worry, darlin’,” he said, hugging her back. “With any luck, me and your momma will be home by Christmas.”

I am sure Sophia knew it was wishful thinking, but she smiled anyway. “Just be careful. I love you, daddy.”

Mike’s big arms bunched as he squeezed tighter, eyes closed, mouth curved in a beatific smile. The wrinkles and stress lines on his face relaxed, and I got the feeling that for a bright, happy moment he let the pain fall away, held his little girl, and was a man at peace.

It’s what I like to tell myself, anyway.

Finally, he said, “I love you too, sweetheart.”

Tyrel and I shook his hand, said our goodbyes, and used silence and steady eye contact to say all the things men hate saying to each other but feel nonetheless. This unique language has a way of baffling women, but men understand it perfectly.

“Y’all look after each other, now,” Mike said, stepping toward the camp, his voice harsh. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

We waved as he walked away.

*****

“So how are Lola and Lance doing?” I asked Tyrel.

We were walking westward on Acacia Drive, back toward our little corner of the refugee camp. People walked by us on the other side of the road, some going to work, others headed to the market or the commissary. There were no shouted greetings, no festive atmosphere, and precious few conversations occurring, ours among them. A woman in her early twenties brushed past me, eyes fixed straight ahead, feet wrapped in strips of thick red cloth bound with shoestrings.

Tyrel rubbed a hand along is jaw. “Things, uh … things didn’t work out between us.”