Despite my mostly dry clothing, I was cold. I got the plastic tarp out of my pack and used it like a blanket. That helped a little. I thought about how much worse off I’d be sleeping outside and sent a silent thank you to whoever had abandoned this car. Eventually, I drifted to sleep.

* * *

It was still storming the next day. I packed the tarp and the damp clothes from the front seat, pulled on my pack and poncho, and slid out into the rain. There didn’t seem to be much ash coming down, but the storm kept everything dark, anyway.

It was a miserable day spent slogging through that slushy ash. The land was hillier here. Going down was fun—on gentle slopes moving forward was easy. On steeper slopes, I could glide to the bottom without doing any work at all. Going up was murder. On the gentlest slopes I could push my skis uphill in a straight line, as if I were on flat land. But sometimes I had to walk with the ski tips outspread in a huge V, which was brutally hard, or keep the skis parallel to the hill and sidestep up, which was excruciatingly slow.

I had trouble finding a decent place to sleep that night. I passed a couple of farmhouses, but after yesterday’s experience, I’d started imagining guns in all their windows. Late that evening, when I was beginning to worry about being forced to sleep outside, I came across a slope that had been planted in pine trees—big ones, twenty or thirty feet high, not little Christmas evergreens. The pine boughs had gotten loaded down with so much ash that nearly every one of the trees had been pulled over or broken. The few trees still upright were stripped of their branches, lonely flagpoles without a nation to claim them.

I picked a large tree that had broken off four or five feet up the trunk and crawled under it. There was a hollow space there—the trunk was still attached to the stump where it had broken, so it formed the ridgepole for a natural lean-to, with pine boughs and the thick ash layer forming the roof. There was a sharp, welcome odor of pine resin almost strong enough to cover the pervasive stench of sulfur.

I settled into the space, trying not to stir up the ash. My pack became a pillow and my plastic tarp a blanket. If anything, it was an even better bed than the car last night. I wondered who I should thank for this shelter? I drifted to sleep thinking about how far I’d come and trying to guess how much farther I had to travel to reach Warren and, hopefully, my family.

* * *

The next day, my fifth on the road, started out pretty well. I’d only been skiing a couple of hours when the storm abated. The end of the cold rain came as such a relief that it took a while before I noticed the thunder and lightning were mostly gone, too. There was an occasional crack of far-off thunder, but nothing like what I’d been hearing for the last week. The ashfall was sparser. It was still hazy and dark, but more like twilight right after the streetlights pop on than dead night. All in all, the changes were very encouraging, and I made good time that morning.

What brought me crashing back to reality was the food situation. I ate my last rations for lunch, a cold can of Van Camp’s Pork and Beans. Thanks to all the extra bottles Elroy had given me, I had enough water for another day, maybe two if I was careful.

Late in the afternoon, I came to an intersection: U.S. 20 and Highway 13, the sign read. There was a gas station near the corner—I recognized the sign. When my sister was little, we used to stop here every time we went to Warren. She had to pee thirty minutes into any trip, like clockwork. That thought was depressing: It had taken me six days to travel only about a quarter of the distance to Warren. On the other hand, I was glad to find U.S. 20; at least I now knew exactly where I was.

The freestanding metal roof had fallen and twisted, taking out two of the pumps. It lay there like the wing of a crashed airplane. I smelled gas as I slid past the pumps.

The station itself had collapsed. The cinderblock wall at the rear still stood, but the rest of the station was a tangled ruin of steel girders, glass, and blue plastic. I hunted through the front of the store, looking for something to eat, but there was too much ash and wreckage in the way.

I walked around to the back. Where the cinderblock wall stood, it had created a triangular space by holding up one end of the steel roof beams. I crawled inside, but there wasn’t enough light to see anything, so I backed out to get a candle and matches from my pack.

I wasted half a candle and at least an hour crawling through the wreckage. My haul was four Starbursts and a handful of Skittles. The candy was shockingly bright against the gray ash. It was a pitifully small amount of food—not even a full meal. It seemed to me that there should be more food—after all, gas station convenience stores were full of stuff to eat. Maybe it had already been looted before it collapsed.

I rubbed the Skittles clean on the inside of my shirt and ate them and the Starbursts. Mom would have told me not to spoil my dinner with candy. I wished I had a dinner to spoil. Or a mom to tell me.

What little light there was had begun to fail. I pulled my pack into the gas station next to the cinderblock wall and curled up in the wreckage to sleep.

In the morning, I woke to the sound of breaking glass.

Chapter 15

I crawled to the edge of my hidey-hole and peeked out. Someone was rummaging through the front part of the gas station, picking up chunks of debris and tossing them aside. I slunk backward into the wreckage and packed up quickly, wincing every time I made a sound.

When I emerged from the hole, I crouched behind a twisted metal roof panel, hoping to watch for a while without being seen. A man and a woman were going through the rubble at the front of the store, sifting ash and moving bits of the wreckage. Behind them two kids, one maybe four or five, the other a bit older, sat on a warped piece of plywood. A rope was tied to the upturned edge of the board, turning it into an improvised sled. A pair of duffel bags rested on the board beside the kids.

I tried to clip into my skis and get ready to move without exposing myself. But it was almost impossible to put skis on while crouching.

“Hello?” the guy called. “Someone there?”

I stood up. “Hi.”

The guy looked at me. Then I saw his eyes scan right and left. “You alone?”

“Yeah.” I said, although the question made me wonder why he wanted to know. The woman kept poking through the rubble, ignoring us.

“You find any food here?”

“Only a handful of candy.”

“You got any food?”

“No.”

“You don’t look hungry,” he said, starting to slog through the ash toward me.

My heart drooped in my chest. I was hungry, tired, and sore from all the skiing. The last thing I wanted was a confrontation with this guy. I sidestepped on my skis, making sure I had a clear path to push forward or back. I stared at the guy, but said nothing.

“My family and I, we were on our way to Nebraska when it hit. We only had some snacks with us. We’ve had barely any food for a week.”

“That’s rough.” I tried to sound sympathetic, but I kept my eyes wide and took a stronger grip on my staff. He was coming on strong, moving toward me as fast as the ash and wreckage would allow.

“That’s a full backpack you’re wearing. There’s food in there. I can smell it.”

“I don’t have any food.”

“Leave him alone, Darryl. He’s only a kid!” the woman yelled.

I wished people would quit calling me a kid, although if it convinced Darryl to back off, I’d take it.

“Shut up, Mabel. We need food.”

I thought about trying to run. I wasn’t sure I could get my skis turned and get moving fast enough to get away. Then I considered the mechanics of fighting on skis while holding a staff and ski pole. Not good. I jammed the ski pole upward through my belt and hoped it would stay put.