A thin layer of ash had settled on everything overnight. Ash had worked its way into my eyelids, armpits, and even my crotch. It rubbed as I moved, abrasive and gritty. I itched in at least a dozen places, because of dry skin or maybe something to do with the ash itself. I thought about changing clothes—I hadn’t worn the fresh shirt and underwear in my pack. But changing my clothing in an ash-covered field during an ashfall probably wouldn’t help much.

The ashfall seemed less intense than the day before. Lightning regularly cracked the sky, but the intervals were longer, and judging by the thunder, it was usually farther off.

I’d been skiing an hour or so when the road came to a T. I turned right, figuring if I went south I’d hit Highway 20 sooner or later. But I didn’t see 20, and mostly I needed to go east, so I turned left as soon as I reached another intersection.

By lunchtime, I was getting desperate to find water. I’d crossed two tiny creeks, but the water was fouled with ash. I wet my breathing rag again, using the tiniest amount of water I could, and then drank two swigs. I had half a bottle left.

A couple hours after lunch, I saw a farmstead alongside the road on my left and turned toward it. The farm consisted of three buildings: a two-story white house with a steep roof, a large barn with a little red paint visible under its coating of ash, and a low, flat-roofed shed that had mostly collapsed.

The place looked deserted. But that was true of every farm I’d seen so far. The only hint of a driveway was a mailbox sticking out of the ash about a foot and a half. There was a chain-link fence around the house, but the ash was so deep that only a foot of it protruded. I sidestepped over the fence and slid to the door.

Ash had drifted across the small front porch and lay deep enough against the screen door that I couldn’t pull it open. I banged on it and yelled. No answer. I skied around the house to a side door. It was locked. More banging and yelling accomplished nothing. I left the yard, stepping over the chain-link fence and skied to the barn. Its doors were padlocked shut.

Perhaps I should have broken into that house—there might have been water there. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. For one thing, it didn’t feel right to mess up someone’s house even though I needed the water. For another, I was worried about what I might find inside. There must have been a reason that place was vacant—what if the owners were inside the house, dead or something?

A few hours later, I was cussing myself as an idiot for not breaking into that house. My water was gone. I’d used the last bit of it to wet my breathing rag over an hour before. It was starting to dry, letting nasty dust through the weave and into my mouth and lungs. If that farmhouse had reappeared in front of me at that moment, I would have rammed my staff through a window and climbed right in.

Not long after I’d had that thought, I saw another farmstead to my right, looming in the darkness. I picked up my pace and headed straight for it.

As I approached, I could tell that this farm was occupied or had been recently. The first clue was a smell—wood smoke and a hint of meat under the omnipresent stench of sulfur. The farmstead consisted of five buildings: a house and barn nearly identical to the last place and three outbuildings, two of them collapsed.

There were footprints leading from a tiny, steep-roofed outbuilding to the back door of the farmhouse. The prints had to be fresh because they were already filling with ash and would soon be completely covered. Somebody had shoveled off the back porch. There were mounds of ash around it, but only a light dusting on the floor.

I unclipped my skis and hobbled across the porch with an awkward, sliding gait. My legs had frozen in ski mode. I pushed the doorbell and then rolled my eyes in irritation at myself—of course the doorbell wouldn’t work. I rapped my knuckles against the door trim instead.

Nobody came. Maybe they couldn’t hear my tapping over the thunder. I opened the screen door and beat on the entry door. Nothing. I tried again, whaling on it this time.

The door pulled inward in a rush, and I saw the long, black, double barrel of a shotgun pointing right at my nuts. My nuts knew where that shotgun was pointing, too; I could feel them trying to climb up into my body for protection. All my muscles tensed and my eyes widened, adrenaline coursing through my system.

The shotgun was held by a tall, rail-thin guy with a scraggly white beard, weathered face, and short white hair. The most amazing thing about him, though, was how clean he was. His face, hands, and bare feet were scrubbed. The jeans and flannel shirt he wore had not a speck of ash on them. Water—there had to be water here. Nobody could be that clean without it.

My first impulse on seeing the gun was to run and hope he didn’t feel like wasting a shell on my puny back. But now I knew there was water here. I’d certainly die if I didn’t find water somewhere, and soon. Was it more painful to die of thirst or a shotgun blast? I wasn’t sure. I stood my ground.

He gestured at me with the shotgun. “Move along, boy.” His voice growled like an engine that rarely saw oil.

I lifted my hands in front of me, palms outward, and backed up a step. A bad move if I had to fight; it took me out of range for a crescent kick. But kicking a gun is a stupid move, only worth trying if there’s no other option. It takes a lot less time to pull a trigger than to launch a kick. “I’m only looking for water, sir.”

“No water for you here. Move along.”

A woman appeared in the doorway behind him. She pulled a dishrag out of her apron strings and whapped the man upside the head with it. “Elroy! We’ve got plenty of water. Can’t you see this is just a poor waif of a boy?”

“Don’t know him. Don’t know who might be with him.”

“Anyone with you, child?” she asked in a kindly tone.

“No, ma’am.”

“Come on in then.” She bustled around Elroy, pushing the barrel of the shotgun aside with her body. I was relieved to see it pointing at the wall, instead of at me. Maybe I could have fought then. But the woman seemed friendly enough; perhaps she’d fill my empty water bottles. She herded Elroy backward through the mudroom and toward the kitchen beyond. She turned toward me. “Well, come on.”

I stepped slowly through the doorway, my hands still raised. Inside there was a small entryway that held a huge freezer, a boot scraper, and a neat row of shoes and boots.

“My, but you’re filthy with that ash.” She handed me a whisk broom. “Brush yourself off with this, son. Now how do you like your steak?”

“My steak?”

“Why, yes. You get cleaned up, and I’m going to throw another steak on the fire for you. We were fixing to eat.”

“No, I couldn’t impose. If you’d fill my water bottles, I’ll get out of your—”

“Nonsense. Why, if either of my sons were out in this, I’d sure want someone to take them in and give them a good meal. Not that they’d be out wandering alone, mind, they’re grown men and have families to look after. So how do you like your steak?”

“Medium rare please, ma’am.” My mouth tried to water at the mere thought of a steak, but it was too parched. Just then I remembered the last time I’d had steak, at Darren and Joe’s house, and felt vaguely sick.

“I’ll do my best. I haven’t had to cook over a wood fire since I was a girl, and then we had a proper stove. I do wish we still had one, instead of that useless electric range. This business of squatting by the fireplace is hard on my old knees. Oh, where are my manners? My name’s Edna. Edna Barslow.”

“Alex.” I started to reach my hand out, saw how filthy it was, and thought better of it. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Barslow.”

“Edna is fine, dear. Now leave your pack and boots in the mudroom and brush off as much of that ash as you can. I don’t hold with ash in my kitchen.”