“Yes. Thanks,” I say as she clears it away. She pulls the throw blanket off the back of the couch and drapes it over me.

“You sleep now. The door and windows are locked, although I have a feeling that if the people after you were headed this way, we would have already heard from them. But, as to not take any chances, I’ll take this to bed with me.” She grabs the rifle from off the wall and lays it on the ground next to her.

I pull my crossbow over from where it’s propped on my bag and place it next to the couch. It’s cold comfort, and less powerful than Tallie’s shotgun, but I feel safer knowing it’s by my side.

42

MILES

IT TAKES A LITTLE TALKING TO CONVINCE THE state police to let me take my “stolen” car without pressing charges or filing a missing persons report. Portman, who happens to be in the same war veterans’ association as one of the patrolmen, finally persuades them that it was all just a teenage love spat, during which my girlfriend drove off with my car and then was picked up by friends. The gas station cashier claims she had her headphones on and didn’t notice a thing.

“You better get home to your father now,” Redding tells me as they pull away. He looks resigned, as if he knows I’m not going to obey him. And he’s right. Getting home to Dad is the last thing on my to-do list, unless I do it with Juneau in tow.

I turn the keys in the ignition and notice the gas dial swing up to full. So Juneau must have filled the tank before she ran off. I walk up to the station and knock on the bulletproof glass. The girl behind the window ignores me, so I knock again. She looks up. I flash her my most charming smile. She slips her headphones off and pops her gum at me.

“Sorry about that,” she says. “I thought you were those cops again.”

“Yeah, that car’s actually mine. My girlfriend drove off with it while we were having an argument.” I decide to stick with Portman’s story. It worked on the cops. “I know you told the police you didn’t see anything, but is there anything at all that you remember that could help me out? It’s late, and I’m worried about her.”

The girl smiles widely and says, “I actually just said that because I didn’t want to have to make an official statement.” She goes on to tell me that she saw everything, including two guys returning a half hour later without the girl and yelling at each other for a while before driving away.

“What direction did they go?” I ask.

“South toward Salt Lake City,” she responds.

“Thank you so much,” I say. She shrugs and slides her headphones back on.

So it happened as I had hoped. Whit’s guys didn’t succeed in finding Juneau, yet she hasn’t come back for my car. That means she’s still out there somewhere. I step over a knee-high concrete wall into the pasture and look around. Trees in the distance, with mountains even farther past them. She could be anywhere. And the point has already been established that my wilderness survival skills are laughably lame next to hers.

Unless she wants me to find her, like she did in Seattle, I have no hope. And after she overheard my phone conversation with Dad, that’s just not going to happen. I rub my face sleepily with the palm of my hand. I know she’s heading for Salt Lake City, but unless she hitchhikes, there’s no way she’ll make it there tonight. I’ll just have to hope she’s too scared to hitch a ride with strangers, I think, and then realize the irony of that thought.

I climb in my car and start driving southward, ready to stop at the first hotel I see.

43

JUNEAU

I AWAKE TO THE SMELL OF BACON AND THE SOUND of eggs popping and spitting on the stovetop. And even though I am completely disoriented, I can’t stop a smile from blooming on my lips. I sit up and am staring Poe straight in the beak. He squawks and flaps his wings.

“He hasn’t moved all night, watching over you like your own avian bodyguard,” comes a voice from across the room. And—snap—I remember where I am.

“Good morning, Tallie,” I say.

She adds a log from the woodpile to the stove. “Breakfast?” she asks.

“Yes, please,” I respond, and she sets a tray on the low table in front of the couch: eggs, bacon, toast, and orange juice.

“Are you a coffee or tea person?” she asks. Her pajamas have disappeared, and she is dressed in jeans and a lumberjack shirt, with her fiery hair tamed and tied in a knot behind her head.

“Chicory, actually,” I answer.

She makes a face like she bit into a sour berry. “Ugh. Nasty stuff. My ex-mother-in-law used to drink chicory. Tea it is, then.” And in a minute she’s back.

She pulls the armchair up to the table and pours two mugs of tea.

I swallow a bite of toast and ask, “You don’t have animals, do you?”

“I don’t like pets,” she says, eyeing Poe. “I have enough work around here without having to worry about codependent furry things.”

“No, I mean where do you get the bacon and eggs?”

“Oh. There’s a general store ten miles away. I hike in twice a week and do handyman jobs for them in exchange for the supplies I can’t forage for myself. I’m self-contained, self-sustained, and I don’t have to pay taxes that go to nice people getting killed in senseless wars.”

“Now I understand why you make yourself invisible,” I say.

“Yeah, I’m a conscientious objector to just about everything,” she says with a grin. “No electricity, no phone or internet, no car. And, contrary to what you’re witnessing right now, I’m normally pretty antisocial.”

I wash down a piece of honey-smeared toast with a gulp of strong tea and ask, “How did you find me? You said you were expecting me.”

“Oh, that,” she says, and lifts her eyebrows mysteriously. “I threw the bones.”

I pause, a forkful of eggs lifted halfway to my mouth. “You threw the bones?”

She opens a drawer in the table between us and takes out a rust-red leather pouch, and then, loosening its drawstrings, spills a handful of dried, bleached animal bones onto the table. “My great-grandma Lula-Mae’s possum bones, passed to her daughter, who passed them to my mom, who passed them to me. Along with double-X chromosomes, all the women in my family possess the Sight. That’s them over there,” she says, nodding to a table in the corner that holds framed photographs. “I call them my goddesses.”