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out from behind the trees and seized the child's arm.
    “No,” she cried, pulling the girl toward her. She too was dressed in a makeshift costume. “I’m sorry, we’re lost. Come on, Dierdre.”
    “It’s all right,” protested Amanda, but the child’s mother was already vanishing, dragging the weeping girl toward the open road. She was too far gone in her mistrust to accept the kindness of this stranger; kindness carried danger with it.
    Amanda stood perfectly still as the pair of squatters retreated. Her eyes filled with tears, and she wondered for a moment what sort of life the Exile mother had had before the troubles, the Transition. Perhaps she’d been a doctor, a professor, a patriot of some sort who had some to be thought dangerous. The Transition turned everyone’s fortunes upside down, and Amanda flushed at the realization that her own position was one of the few that had actually improved. Before the takeover, Peter Bradford had been . . . what? A minor official among dozens of others, living, as did almost everyone in Milford County, in the shadow of the Milford clan. Life was so easy then—a new car every third year, meat on the table, and, with prudent saving, college for the children. An easy life—but where was the distinction? No, the distinction did not lie with men like Peter Bradford, but with those like Devin Milford, the risk takers, the windmill jousters, the dreamers.
    Once, Amanda Bradford told herself, Devin Milford had actually dreamed of her . It was back in high school, when Devin and Peter Bradford were close if somewhat unlikely friends, and Amanda Taylor had been pursued by both of them. Even then, with unfailing intuition, she understood somehow that Devin offered excitement, grandeur, and the sort of insecurity that thrilled her but that she could not finally accept. Peter Bradford offered safety, calm, and, yes, love; he was a steady man, a good man. Why then did Amanda sometimes catch herself wondering if she had somehow failed her deeper self in picking him?
    Jackie Bradford rode her bike slowly and carefully along the neglected, potholed road, her thoughts on the dance tryouts that afternoon.
    So deep was her concentration that she was unaware of the hum of a motorcycle coming up behind her. The hum had mounted to a roar before she noticed.
    Justin Milford, nineteen, gunned the engine of Ms Harley-Davidson, a lovingly tended machine that was older than he was. That motorcycle, the leather jacket and goggles that went with it—and Jackie Bradford— were about the only things in Milford County that Justin liked.
    “Hi.” Justin was one of those people who could make that single syllable sound intriguing, sexy, and even vaguely threatening.
    Jackie was delighted to see Mm but maintained her cool. “What are you doing here?”
    “I woke up this morning and was dying for a kiss. Thought I’d come in to town to see if I could find anybody who looked halfway decent.”
    “Maybe you better keep looking.” She held back her smile.
    “I’m always looking,” said Justin as they approached the beginning of a long, gradual rise. “Let me give you a tow—you’ll want to save your energy for tryouts.” She was flattered that he remembered and stopped her bike. Justin brought the Harley to a halt beside her and handed her a rope that was attached to the rack in back of the motorcycle seat. “Ready?”
    He gunned his engine and the rope snapped taut, dragging Jackie Bradford’s bike at a giddy pace. The maneuver was gutsy, perilous, intoxicating—the perfect distillation of the effect Justin Milford had on her. At the top of the hillock, Justin stopped short, and Jackie’s momentum carried her right into his arms.
    He slipped off his goggles, and leaned over confidently for his reward. They straddled their respective bikes and kissed: a flurry of awkward but enthusiastic pecks and smiles.
    “I’m only doing this because you remembered my tryout,” she whispered.
    “It’s