“I’ll get it.” Taylor starts to take off her backpack, but I hold out my hand.
“Why don’t we stop for the day and check out the map when we find shelter?”
“Because if we’re five miles away from the cabin, why wouldn’t we just walk the five miles and stay there?”
“I think it’s farther than that,” I say, trying to bluff. “And, honestly, the last time I was around here and wasn’t careful, I stepped in a bear trap. So it’s safer for us to find a place to stick it out for the night and get a fresh start tomorrow.”
Taylor shakes her head as though she’s disappointed in me. I almost ask her what that look is for, but I know the answer and I don’t need her to say it aloud.
She knows I have no idea where Jamie’s cabin is.
It’s kind of why I found it to begin with. At the time, I’d just hadmy first bad interaction with other survivors. So I got off the highway and started wandering aimlessly down side roads and less busy highways.
But then, passing through the town where I eventually found the cabin, I heard people. They were on ATVs or dirt bikes—I only heard the revving of their engines.
So I got off the road and went into the woods.
And that’s when I stepped in a bear trap.
I should tell the kids the story, but I can do that when wefindthe cabin.
If we find the cabin.
We’ll find the cabin. Right?
We come to a quiet small-town street that either looks familiar or it’s my own hopeful mind playing games with me. It’s easier tonotbe optimistic because then shit like this doesn’t happen. My mind doesn’t say “Hey! This might be the place!” But lately I really have been trying to be more optimistic.
I think it’s because of the others. How they agreed to stay with me even though we were going to a strange place where they had no idea what was waiting for them. They became the optimists because they trusted me.
Yeah, maybe I should have been a little more honest that I needed to do some exploring to find Jamie’s cabin again. But it’s nice that they trusted me! We’re here, we have time. It will be fine.
See? Optimistic.
It’s not too cold, so we should be okay in any building, even one without a fireplace.
“How ’bout there?” Jamar points to a two-story house painted pink with purple shutters. The supports and handrails on the wraparound porch are also purple, but the spindles in the railing have been painted pink. There’s a crooked sign swinging in the breeze. It’s hanging from one hook, the chain on the other side scraping the top of the purple railing.
The sign reads: “Marnie’s Kitchen Café.”
“Why not?” I say, happy with anything that gives me a little more time to check the road atlas and see if there’s a town or a street oranythingthat sounds familiar.
We go up onto the porch and try the front door, but it’s locked.
“Try around back?” Taylor says.
I hold out my hand to the Kid, who takes it and lets me lead him around the side of the porch, where there’s another door. But that one’s locked, too.
“What kind of lunatic locks doors during the apocalypse?” I ask.
“Maybe this is someone’s house,” the Kid answers.
“I think it used to be a house,” I say. “But then someone named Marnie turned it into a restaurant.”
“It’s a restaurant?” The Kid sounds impressed, and I realize he probably thinks Marnie is still around and turned it into a restaurant postapocalypse.
“I mean before the bug, Kid. It’s not anymore. Not a great time to start a business, with the collapse of civilization and all.”
“Yeah,” the Kid says, as if he understands the fall of capitalism. We climb down from the porch and continue toward the back of the house.
