We listened to the radio until the batteries died late that evening, but we only caught one more intelligible fragment: “. . . announced earlier today that, using the emergency powers granted it under FERROA, the Department of Homeland Security has appropriated a large tract of land near Barlow, Kentucky, to control the influx of refugees from southern Missouri. Construction will begin . . .”

This was more interesting. We found Barlow on the Kentucky page of the atlas. It took some searching—it was a tiny black speck of a town near the Mississippi River. Nowhere near us, but at least on the same side of the country.

“Maybe there’s help east of us,” I said.

“Sounds like there must be,” Mrs. Edmunds said.

“I need to leave soon.” I said it with some regret. I would miss Mrs. Edmunds. And I’d miss Darla.

“You’re welcome to stay. You’ve worked so hard—more than earned your keep.”

“Thanks. I . . .” A thought seized my brain: I’d be dead if not for them. I fought back tears. “I don’t know how to thank—”

“Shush,” Mrs. Edmunds said. “Anyone would have taken you in. Why, you were half-dead when you fell into our barn.”

Actually, anyone wouldn’t have taken me in. I’d met people who wouldn’t. The faceless person who’d pointed a rifle at me as I skied toward his farmhouse, for one. Target, for another. I shuddered at that memory. “I wish we’d heard more about what’s going on in Illinois.”

“Your family is there, right?” Mrs. Edmunds asked.

“Yeah . . . at least, that’s where they were headed.”

“Maybe someone in town would know more.”

“I’ve been thinking about going to town, anyway,” Darla said. “I need to ask Doc Smith about my rabbits. I’d feel better if I could save a few of them to breed.”

“What town? How far is it?” I asked.

“Worthington,” Darla replied. “About five miles. It’s an easy walk—I’ve done it before.”

“In this mess? Ten miles there and back? We might not be able to make it in a day.”

“Who said anything about ‘we’? I’ll go, find out what’s wrong with my rabbits, ask about Illinois, and come back.”

“You should both go,” Mrs. Edmunds said. “It’ll be safer. I’ll stay here, watch the rabbits, and catch up on my cleaning. If it gets too late, stay overnight with Loretta Smith or Pam Jacobs. They won’t mind. But don’t stay more than one night. I’ll be worried enough as it is.”

“I’ll be okay, Mom.”

“I know you will, dear. But I’ll still worry.”

Moms. They were all alike in that way.

Chapter 24

The next morning we fed and watered the rabbits by torchlight before dawn. I found my ski boots and skis in a corner of the barn. The right boot had dried stiff. I beat it with a fist and turned it over. Flakes of rusty stuff fell out and floated to the barn floor: my dried blood mixed with ash.

Mrs. Edmunds gave us each a huge stack of corn pone wrapped in old newspaper. Darla added two rabbit haunches fresh from the smoker. She cut a slit in one of them—it was still a bit raw, but they didn’t smell spoiled. I packed my water bottles, tarp, and knife, just in case. I left my hiking boots behind; I figured the ski boots would be okay for a day trip. I planned to carry the bö staff and ski pole.

Darla added a couple bags of cornmeal to her pack—to barter, if we found anything we needed, she said. Mrs. Edmunds pressed a wad of paper money into Darla’s hand, and I hid a smile. I doubted that anyone would have much use for twenty-dollar bills now, except perhaps as fire starter. Darla took the money anyway, jamming it into her jeans pocket.

Mrs. Edmunds hugged Darla, kissed her on the cheek, and admonished her to be careful and look after me. Darla endured it all a bit impatiently.

I was surprised when Mrs. Edmunds hugged me. At first, I let my arms flap around at my side. But she didn’t let go, so I hugged her back. Then I thought about my mom and had a hard time unhugging Mrs. Edmunds. Yes, my mom was a pain in the butt, and we fought a lot, but I missed her. I would have given anything to have her in my embrace now, instead of this wonderful ersatz mother who had adopted me.

So we set out, me on my skis, Darla trudging through the ash beside me. We followed the road that passed in front of Darla’s farmstead, traveling on the crown where wind had blown away some of the ash. In some places, the ash had formed a crust Darla could walk on. But in most areas, loose ash still lay on the road, and Darla sank to her ankles with every step.

Skiing was hard work—my muscles seemed to have forgotten the movements over the last few weeks. Nonetheless, I quickly got way ahead of Darla. I heard her faintly behind me, calling, “Hey, wait up,” as I topped a low rise. I turned and looked—she was at least forty yards back. I grinned at her and pushed off as hard as I could.

The hill wasn’t very steep, but by pushing all the way down I caught a little speed—enough to give me time to flop at the bottom and rest there with a smirk on my face as she struggled down the backside of the hill.

When she finally caught up, Darla silently stomped past me. I felt a little bad watching her rip each foot free of the ash, working for every step—but not bad enough to stop me from sliding past her when I started moving again.

I rested for a bit at the bottom of the next rise, and then began poling my way up. Partway up the hill, it got steep enough that I couldn’t push straight up it anymore. So I had to duck walk. Well, I called it duck walking—I wasn’t sure if that was the right name for it or not. Anyway, if I spread the tips of my skis way out, I could walk uphill without sliding backward—it was hard work, but faster than taking the skis off.

So I was duck walking up the slope, when Darla burned by me. Her legs were pumping, thrusting her feet in and out of the ash. She looked like an athlete doing a stair run. I picked up speed and tried to catch her, but it was impossible. By the time I reached her at the top of the rise, I was gasping for breath and my side hurt. Darla smiled triumphantly.

“Yeah,” I said between gasps, “let’s see how you do on the downhill.” I pushed off as hard as I could, pointing my skis down the back side of the rise.

As I passed Darla, I felt a weight on the back of my skis, throwing me off balance. I whipped my head around: Darla was perched on my skis, clutching my backpack. I dug in with both poles, pushing hard. I thought a burst of speed might throw her off.

No such luck. She clung to me as I pushed, but I did get us moving. Soon we were flying down the hill.

I yelled over my shoulder, “Hey, this works pretty well. We—” Turning threw my balance off, and the inside edge of my left ski caught in the ash. We spun sideways and fell. The ash sort of cushioned my fall, but it did nothing to protect me from Darla’s knee, which dug painfully into my thigh as she landed on top of me.

Darla pushed herself up. “You okay? Did I land on your side?” She extended a hand to help me up.

I took her hand. “Yeah, I’m fine.” I grinned and gave her arm a vicious yank, pulling her down into the ash next to me.

“You butthead!” Darla grabbed a handful of ash and hurled it at me. I retaliated in kind.

It wasn’t quite like a snowball fight. The ash wouldn’t adhere into a ball, for one thing. It exploded into a gently floating mass of dust when I tried to throw it. But since we were lying next to each other, we could cover each other in dusty clouds of the stuff.

Pretty soon we were laughing and choking on ash at the same time. I called, “Truce!”

Darla said, “Done,” and stood up again. This time I let her help me up. We were both filthy with ash. We looked sort of like those Africans I used to see on the Discovery Channel who painted their bodies with white mud. Maybe they still do, but there isn’t a Discovery Channel to film it now.