“What’s his name?” I asked.

“Jack.”

I was so startled to hear her respond that I almost dropped the cornmeal. “You named a rabbit Jack? Like jackrabbit?”

“Yeah. Stupid, huh?”

“And you had one named Buck? Did you have male rabbits named Bull? Or Gander?”

Darla laughed. It sounded musical after the days of silence. “Yeah, I had one named Bull. And Rooster. Didn’t think of Gander. Good idea, though.”

“It’s good to hear your voice again.”

She was silent for so long, I was afraid I’d said something wrong, somehow screwed things up. “. . . I’ve been a bitch, haven’t I?” she said finally.

“No—”

“I know it wasn’t your fault. Bad things are happening all over. Mom . . . We were unlucky. . . . I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“It might have been worse if you hadn’t been there. I might be dead, too. You killed that Ferret guy. You killed them both. Maybe I’d be dead if not for you.”

I shrugged.

“I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I miss Mom so much.” A low moan built deep in her throat, releasing into a full-fledged sob. “I miss her so much, Alex,” she said through her tears, shoulders heaving.

I wrapped my arms around her and held her as she cried. I might have cried a little, too, her sadness was so deep.

That night we moved the fire to one side of our igloo, closer to the smoke hole in the wall. We slept on the other side. It wasn’t cold in the shelter anymore. But we still curled up together to sleep.

Chapter 35

When we emerged from our igloo in the morning, it was bitterly cold. No snow was falling, and there was very little wind. The morning light reflected off the snow, making it the brightest day I’d seen since the eruption.

Darla made breakfast while I scouted around. The snow was deep—I sank to the top of my thighs in it. The north wall of our shelter was completely hidden by a huge snowdrift that sloped gently upward, reaching all the way to the top of the bridge.

I found two strong branches and hacked them off their tree with the hatchet I’d taken from Target. One branch was the perfect length for a ski pole. The other was about six feet long, so I planned to use it as a makeshift bö staff.

We ate corn pone for breakfast and refilled all our water bottles. At least the snow had solved our water problems. Now we simply filled the frying pan with snow, held it over the fire for a few minutes, and poured the fresh water into our bottles. We packed up everything, clipped into our skis, and set out.

Sidestepping up the embankment to the bridge was difficult. We started at the north side, but the drifts were too deep. Even with the skis, we sank so far into the snow that we couldn’t lift our legs high enough to make any upward progress. We gave up and skied to the south side.

We made it up that embankment. I sidestepped to the crown of the road, pointed my skis across the bridge, and pushed off.

What followed was utter fail on two levels: First, my improvised ski poles just poked holes in the snow. They never hit anything solid, so I couldn’t push off. Second, when I tried shuffling forward without pushing off, my skis dug troughs five or six inches deep in the soft snow. The tips of my skis promptly dove under the snow ahead of me and caught, pitching me forward onto my face.

I lifted my head out of the snow and looked back. Darla was smiling, trying somewhat unsuccessfully to suppress outright laughter. “Fine. You try it,” I grumbled.

Darla pushed off with her poles and glided smoothly over the surface of the snow. She looked back at me and shrugged.

I tried again. My ski tips pushed under the snow, nearly causing another fall.

I glared at my skis. That was when I noticed they were different from Darla’s. For one thing, her poles had big baskets a few inches from the end that caught in the snow and let her push off, even in the deep stuff we were trying to cope with. For another, her skis were a lot wider than mine and a little shorter. They were slightly concave on each edge, too. My best guess was that the librarian had sold us a pretty good pair of off-trail skis, while my dad’s old skis were designed for groomed snow. I shared this theory with Darla.

“I don’t know anything about skis, but I think you’re right,” she said. “I’ve got an idea—I think I can make some baskets for the ends of your poles if we can find some twine somewhere. I can’t think of any way to fix your skis, though.”

“Me, either.”

“Try skiing in my tracks.”

That worked okay. So long as I stayed behind Darla and kept my weight centered on my skis, I could shuffle along in the grooves her skis cut in the new snow. I was a lot slower than she was. Being able to use her poles more than compensated for the extra effort she had to put in to break the trail. Every forty or fifty feet she’d stop and wait for me to catch up. I thought fondly back to our first trip to Worthington, when I’d been on skis and she’d been on foot. We had been a strange team, even back then.

* * *

We broke into a farmhouse that night. It looked deserted—no tracks in the snow, no smoke from the chimney—and it was, sort of.

Darla found a window ajar at the back of the house. We unclipped from our skis and stuck them upright in the snow. I shoved the window fully open and climbed through.

It was late and too dark to see much in the room. There was a vaguely unpleasant smell, a hint of something putrid lingering on the knife-edge of the frozen air. Darla stepped behind me and dug a candle and matches out of my backpack.

By the candlelight we discovered we were in a bedroom. A queen bed, sheets pulled tight with military precision, filled the center of the room. A man wearing a black suit lay in the center of the bed, his skin frozen to a blue-white pallor. He looked almost normal—peaceful, even—except for the gun clutched in his right hand and the huge black stain wreathing his head in a sanguinary halo.

Darla jumped and let out a yelp. Maybe I should have been startled, as well. Finding myself in a room with a corpse would have scared the bejeezus out of me only five weeks ago. But I’d seen a lot of corpses since I’d left home; this fellow wasn’t the worst—and probably wouldn’t be the last.

Darla turned away from the bed. She stared at a cracked mirror mounted above the dresser. The mirror was so coated in dust that it didn’t reflect anything. She dragged her splayed fingers across its surface, and our reflections appeared, fractured into five narrow lines by the paths she’d drawn.

I held the candle over the bed. Flecks of blood spotted the guy’s lips, gleaming black in the candlelight.

“What do you think happened?” Darla asked.

“He shot himself. Put the gun in his mouth.”

“He put on his best suit, too. His funeral suit. . . . Why?”

I wasn’t sure if she was asking why he had killed himself, or why he had dressed up to do it, but either way the answer was the same. “I dunno.” I reached out and touched the guy’s hand. It felt cold and hard as marble.

“What are you doing?” Darla asked.

“Getting the gun.” I had to bust his finger to get it out of the trigger guard. It cracked, like ice breaking. “You know anything about pistols?”

“Not much.”

I handed the gun to her anyway. “Not much” beat what I knew, which was absolutely nothing. Darla found a latch on the left side of the gun that released the cylinder. There was one spent casing in there—no bullets. Darla picked the casing out with her fingernail and closed the cylinder. She put the gun in one of the exterior pockets of my backpack.

We looked through the rest of the house. It was small: two bedrooms, one bath, a kitchen, and a living room with a fireplace. Nobody else was there, alive or dead.