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  When the coughing stops, he looks up at me. “You okay?” He wipes at tears that have sprung up.

  He’s asking about me with his blue-tinged lips, flecks of foam at the corners of his mouth. I’ll never be as good as my brother.

  “Yep. You?”

  He nods. “Were you fighting with Auntie?” His voice is raw from the cough.

  “No.”

  His small, dark eyes narrow. “How come she yelled at you?”

  “It’s Auntie. She’s … you know.” I wind my finger around my ear and loll my tongue out of my mouth. It makes him laugh. The laughing makes him cough. God, I can’t do anything right.

  His eyes track to the window where his dad fixes the Jeep. “You’re mad ’cause Dad won’t let you go to town.”

  Ethan adores his dad and it bugs him that we don’t get along. I understand. Two of the four people he loves snap at each other all day, but even my peacekeeping brother can’t mend the rift between Arn and me.

  “Let’s not talk about Arn.” I pick up his comic book and flip through the pages. “Superman again? Haven’t you read this like 800 times?”

  “It’s so cool.” His eyes light up and his posture straightens. He turns to the middle of the book, crinkled with use, and points to Superman fighting a monster covered in knotty gray spikes. The dry desert behind them looks like what I see out our back window.

  “Look.” He points a dirty finger. “This is where Superman fights Doomsday. Isn’t he awesome?”

  Superman is Ethan’s favorite. Whenever something bad happens, a man with rippling muscles flies in and rescues the townsfolk. Superman makes it all okay. I don’t tell Ethan we have no Superman. No one will save us from the monsters that threaten us.

  “Can you read it?” His elbow digs into my thigh as he scoots closer.

  My mouth tenses as I look down at the little black words. There are some I know. Many I don’t.

  “Right here,” he says, pointing to a word bubble.

  I smile weakly and squint at the page. “Dooms … day.”

  Ethan gives me a nod.

  “Is he … is he …” I squint at the next word and try to sound it out. It has too many parts that swim around in my head, making the whole too hard to piece together.

  I glance at the novel wedged under the mattress that I’ve been trying to read for over a year. Some massive thing called The Stand. I found it in the closet of our last house in a busted black safe. The little book with the bent cover must’ve been worth something a long time ago, probably something to do with the author’s name scratched in red pen on the inside cover.

  I close the comic book and set it on Ethan’s nightstand.

  “My eyes hurt.” It’s a lie and we both know it, but Ethan nods. “Come on.” I stand up and offer my hand. “Let’s go check the snares. If we’re lucky, we’ll get us a jackrabbit for supper.”

  We pull on patched coveralls, thin long-sleeved shirts, hats, thick boots. We’re sweating before we walk out the door, but without the gear, the white-hot sun would fry our skin. I snag the hunting rifle, the Winchester single barrel with the battered grip and oiled muzzle (We keep our guns clean, Arn always says) and sling it over my shoulder. I won’t use it unless the coyotes are prowling. Guns ain’t hard to come by, but bullets are. I got my hunting knife in my pocket. I hope to put that to some use.

  I lead us through the yard. Ethan shuffles after me, his oversized boots—mine a few years ago—clunking through the dust. We tromp to the barn. Its weathered sides lean left and the roof sags like a deflated piecrust. Arn says the main beams are so solid, it’ll hold for thirty years. Looking at the rotting boards as I enter, I can’t imagine it standing for another three.

  I walk through the large, open doors and the air instantly cools. It’s quieter here and even the smell, cow manure and musty hay, won’t bother me for long. Bounty, our cow, moos at me as I walk by. I lean over the rail and rub the black patch on her forehead.

  I lead us to the back of the barn. In a dark corner, a tarp-covered shape hunkers near Arn’s workbench. I pull off the tarp and the air thickens. A four-wheeler with a cracked leather seat and worn, nubby tires wink at me beneath the dust. The four-wheeler is off limits. We can’t afford to use fuel for a snare check. I run my hand over the bumpy leather seat and feel a pulling in my chest. One headlight stares out at me, begging me to unleash her.

  Ethan slides up behind me. “We gonna take the four-wheeler?”

  I can tell by his voice that he’s uneasy. “Thinking about it.” I grip the handlebars, the rubber warm to the touch.

  “You know Dad says we can’t.”

  I sigh and throw the cover back over the quad. “Fine,” I grumble, “but you better not bellyache on the way back. I ain’t carrying your big butt all the way home.”

  He pokes me in the stomach. “You’re the big, fat bubble butt,” he says, smiling.

  I reach for him, ready to make him pay—through ticking mostly, but maybe a few pinches for good measure—but he’s sprinting away. I charge after him, a smile spreading.

  We head out past the dead fruit trees that mark where our yard ends and the scrubland begins. We tromp through the dried creek bed, the brown, broken dirt crunching under our boots. Ethan lags to watch a lizard dart under a rock. Flies buzz around my head, attempting to land and bite. With the human population on the decline, the animal population is on the rise. That is good for hunting, but swarms of bugs leave red welts up and down my arms.

  Twenty minutes of sweating and tromping brings us to the game trail. I tread beside it, careful not to disturb the dry grass. When we approach my snare, I hear thrashing. Bingo. I run up and draw my knife. When the iguana hears me, the lizard scrambles around in the dirt, wiping his tail and kicking up a cloud of dust. My rope snare tightens around his neck until his eyes bulge. He’s circled around the shrub I’ve used as an anchor, giving him inches to move.

  When my shadow crosses him, his legs scour the dirt. He hisses and shows me his big pink tongue. I kneel beside him and grab a hold of his belly with both hands. He bucks and kicks, but my grip is strong. His sharp, spiny scales cut into my palm, but I grit my teeth and pin the iguana to the dirt. When I have him still, I draw my knife from its sheath. Ethan leans over my shoulder and looks down at the bug-eyed lizard.

  “You gonna kill it?” His voice is thin. He hates the killing.

  “Close your eyes.” I don’t like the killing. I just like it more than starving to death. I lift the knife. Its round dark eyes blink up at me.

  “Sorry, guy,” I murmur into the lizard’s rolling eyes. His heart thrums under my palm. “Us or you.”

  Once the lizard is dead, I tie the rope snare around his long tail and then sling him over my shoulder. We need to hike it home fast. The smell of blood will get the coyotes on our trail soon enough. We jog back to the house, the blazing sun searing our heads until I swear my hair’s on fire.

  Ethan begins to wheeze halfway back. We stop in the shade of an angular cactus so he can catch his breath. In the lean slash of shade, Ethan lifts the rifle from the ground and raises it to his eye.

  “Can I shoot the gun?” He looks up at me expectantly.

  I look out over the dusty landscape. The dry land shimmers in the heat. The green cacti are the only color dotting the sea of brown. “Arn says you ain’t old enough to shoot when he ain’t around.”

  He sighs and peers over the gun, aiming at a rock formation. His fingers stay away from the trigger though. He’s much more obedient than I am. A few years ago when Arn taught me to shoot, I pulled the trigger long before he gave me permission.

  I put my hand on my little brother’s shoulder. “You’re holding the barrel wrong.” I slide his hand into place.

  “I can fire just once?”

  I muss his hair. “Sure. What Arn don’t know won’t kill him, right?”

  When Arn never returns from town, my words haunt me all night long.

  Chapter Three

  We
sit around the kitchen table as the first rays of daylight bleed into the horizon. It is seven-thirty. Arn has been gone for twenty-two hours.

  When I awoke this morning, I found my mama at the table with her mug of weak tea. Her red, puffy eyes let me know she’d been crying. Yet, when I sat down with her, she smiled at me, her eyes dry. Somehow it comforts me, though I know it’s just a show.

  One by one we gathered at the table. The kitchen window looks out on the dry, gravel path where Arn disappeared yesterday morning. For an hour we have watched, not speaking as the dust swirls in little sand tornadoes across the road.

  Arn usually returns before nightfall whenever he goes to town. The road is dangerous after dark. Marauders will run cars off the road, steal their goods and kill the occupants. Arn is smart, careful and a crack shot with his rifle. It’s how he’s kept us safe this long. I tell myself this as I watch the red and orange hues spread across the east.

  Hundreds of reasonable problems could’ve befallen my stepfather. The old Jeep could’ve died, despite his deftness at fixing it, leaving him stranded. He could’ve had trouble trading for enough fuel. He could’ve been too tired to ride the four hours back home and slept in the safety of the town walls. Yet, those aren’t the thoughts that run riot in my mind as we wait. I think about someone shooting him in the back because they wanted his rifle. I think about his mangled body lying on the side of the road. I think about Arn never coming home.

  I glance at my family. Auntie’s face registers no emotion, but her stubby fingernails click rapidly on the tabletop. Ethan’s trying hard not to cry, but any minute the dam will break. My mama sits, her face a mask of muted sorrow. Her spoon clinks around her mug, stirring tea that has long since grown cold.

  I can’t just sit here. Bounty moos from the barn. Arn wasn’t here for her morning milking. I push up from my chair.

  “I’m going to milk Bounty.” I don’t wait for an answer.

  My heart pounds as I reach the faded red doors. I yank them open and am flooded the raw stink of manure. Looks like I have shoveling to do. I pull my shirt over my mouth and walk into the dimness. Bounty greets me from her stall, blinking her big brown eyes and swishing her bristly tail back and forth. I put my hand on her neck. “I’m here,” I murmur. At least I can help someone today. I dig out the milking bucket and stool.

  My mind runs as my fingers pull on Bounty’s udders. The warm milk zings into the metal bucket as my thoughts tumble around. If Arn is dead… It’s gut-wrenching to think. He can’t be dead, but someone has to face facts. If he’s dead, we’ll all follow. He’s the only one who can barter in town. We might be able to survive for a while on wild game I trap, but what happens if the game dries up? The canned food will last two or three months. The garden barely ekes out enough to make the labor worthwhile in this dry soil. We’d have to eat Bounty and the two pigs. And then there’s medicine. Arn went into town to buy rubbing alcohol, bandages, and disinfectant. I can’t watch Ethan die of a little scratch that festers.

  I tug Bounty’s teat too hard and she shuffles against me, almost knocking me off the stool. I run a hand over her bulging belly in apology. Then I lay my cheek against her warmth. Arn will just have to come home. Any other possibility is unthinkable.

  On the third day after Arn fails to show, my mama cries upstairs. The sound cracks me wide open. I stare at the ceiling and let hot tears trace my cheeks. My family is falling apart. Chores have come to a halt. Ethan straggles around the house and bursts into tears. Auntie Bell rocks on the front porch for hours. Nobody’s eaten much in three days. I milk the cow, feed and water the livestock and then crawl back into bed. I stare at the cracks in the plaster ceiling and think about how to keep my family alive.

  I drag myself out of bed, dig my feet into my boots and head to the barn. Bounty moos a greeting as I walk in, but I don’t stop to rub my hand along her flank. I pass several empty stalls until I reach the big expanse Arn uses as his workshop. In the dim light, I examine his projects. The kitchen chair he was mending sits upturned, legs to the sky like a dead spider. A rough spear carved out of a tree branch rests against the wall. Oily car parts lie in pieces on the table. I notice a lumpy object covered with a cloth on the shelf above. Digging through Arn’s things seems wrong, but if he’s dead someone will have to.

  I uncover a small block of carved wood that Arn has whittled into a rough figure. I turn the wooden doll until I can make out the strong chin, the bulging muscles, the S carved with Arn’s careful fingers. Superman. Ethan’s unfinished birthday present.

  With tears in my eyes, I slip the wooden figurine back under the cloth. That decides it. If Arn’s alive, I’ll find him. There’s no Superman. There’s only me.

  I walk to the tarp-covered quad. I pull off the cover and nearly choke on the dust. Three days ago I was going to take a joy ride. Today there’s nothing joyful about the ride I’ll take.

  I sneak back to the house for supplies. My mama and Ethan are curled up in their rooms. Auntie rocks on the porch. She’ll see me go, but by then it’ll be too late. I grab my backpack from the hall closet and slip into the kitchen. I tuck in canned goods, crusts of bread and a big jug of water. From the closet, I grab goggles, a bandanna and Arn’s thick leather jacket. I’ve already got my hunting knife. I snag the rifle and a box of bullets on my way out the door.

  My heart hammers hard by the time I get back to the barn. If I’d eaten much today, it’d be coming back up. I got plenty to worry about on the road: bandits, animals, running out of fuel and starving to death. Then if I make it to town I have to somehow find Arn without drawing attention to myself. Arn’s stories about the inhabitants have nervous sweat pooling on my palms. The town is a den of thieves, rapists, and murderers. A girl like me is worth a lifetime’s wages. This is not my brightest idea.

  Back in the barn, I check the bandages binding my breasts and then slip on Arn’s jacket.

  His scent buried deep in the collar starts a lump of sadness in my throat. I tie the dirty brown bandanna over my mouth and nose and slide goggles over my eyes. Arn’s battered helmet is a loose fit, but I strap it on anyway. I have no mirror to judge, but pretty sure I can pass for a boy. That is unless they get too close.

  The fuel in the quad’s tank isn’t enough for a return trip. If I do come back, I’ll have to buy gas or steal it. Just one more problem on my list, but the alternative is giving up Arn for dead. I strap on my backpack and straddle the quad.

  Visible through the open barn door is the house. I linger over the windows that mark my bedroom, my mother’s room. My fingers tremble as I urge them towards the ignition. I touch the metal key, but can’t force myself to turn it. From her stall Bounty moos and blinks her big brown eyes. I get off the quad, jog over to Bounty and throw my arms around her thick, bristly neck.

  “Take care of them, Bounty,” I whisper into her fur.

  She shuffles and blinks.

  I squeeze her once more, then hop on the quad before I change my mind. The engine’s roar echoes through the barn, sending Bounty careening to the back of her stall. I don’t look back. I hit the gas.

  I peek into the hot morning air and fly across the yard. My eyes mark the patch of dust where I taught Ethan to ride the old ten-speed we found in the barn. I rush past my mother’s little garden with the carrot tops just poking from the dry soil. I trundle over the spot where just three days ago Arn lay fixing his Jeep. I blink back tears. I look away.

  The quad’s tires crunch the gravel as I hit the main road. Auntie jumps up as I pass by the porch, her mouth formed into an O. She looks beautiful in her long cotton shift, her hair billowing around her. I raise a hand in passing. Then I turn my eyes away so her pleading eyes don’t make me turn this quad around.

  When I allow myself a look back, three people stand side by side on the porch. They lean into each other, their forms blur into one shape, a wall of mourning watching me go. Tears blear the lenses of my goggles. They think I’m foolish, rash, crazy. I hope to God they�
��re wrong.

  The open road stretches like a never-ending sea of busted blacktop. On either side, the scraggly hardpan and endless flat dirt never change. The sun has crept to her zenith and bores like a hot poker into my leather jacket. My shoulders and arms ache. My butt feels like someone’s spent the afternoon kicking it. Three hours down. Two to go.

  I crest a small hill and spot a splash of color on the horizon. A few more seconds and I make out a car. It’s some snazzy thing, Camaro or Viper, gone to rusty Swiss cheese on the side of the road. My shoulders tighten. Abandoned cars should be the state mascot there’s so many, but this one looks drivable—odd since anything that moves is snatched up by somebody. I swallow past the tightness in my throat, let up on the gas and run my eyes over the car.

  The hairs on my arms go up as my eyes fix on the lump cresting above the steering wheel. Someone’s in the driver seat. Dead or alive? My insides go liquid. Most of me wants to let off the gas and turn around. Or crank the gas and fly past. But what if it’s Arn? Arn, Arn, Arn, I think. I slow to fifteen miles an hour, my heart jackrabbiting beneath my leather jacket.

  Wispy tufts of hair stir in the breeze, thin corn silk strands, white and fine. When I’m level with the car, I can see the dead man’s face, blue and bloated. It slumps like a sack of grain as his forehead slowly fuses with the steering wheel. My eyes drag over the shriveled lips, curled back on a set of yellow teeth in a ghoulish grin. The only thing moving is the flies darting around his eye sockets.

  Dead. So dead. I can’t crank the gas fast enough. For an hour I see his shrunken face at the backs of my eyes.