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Walking out between the security scanners, I wait for someone to tackle me, to call the cops. I expect to see Valor suits blocking the doors.
    But very little has changed in the capital of capitalism. Business as usual. There are definitely more men than women around, and I don’t see a single kid or baby. Everyone at this Shop N Save always looks desperate, but now they look desperate and wary. How many of them have seen neighbors gunned down? How many have heard the Valor voice mail after calling 911? Whatever they know, theyneed food as much as we do, so they’re here, selling and buying. Just like Valor wants them to be.
    We drive back to the house in the woods and eat a ton of stale cake with our hands, since nobody thought about forks and the kitchen was ransacked long ago. I take a walk with Matty deep into the woods and crap behind a log, expecting something horrible to happen all the while. It’s like The Walking Dead , basically. Thank heavens for Shop N Save’s single-ply toilet paper.
    Most of the day, honestly, is spent fidgeting. No one knows what to do, but no one wants to talk about it. Every time someone tries to start a conversation, it just tapers off like we’re all waiting for a phone to ring, listening for some far-off sound. By the time we need to leave for the Citizens for Freedom meeting, I’ve learned that the kid I shot is named Kevin and that Chance and Gabriela are the closest things I have to friends now. Chance is kind of a dick to everyone but cool to Gabriela, and Gabriela is cool to everyone and hates to be called Gabby. Wyatt and Matty, of course, are family now.
    Sometime in the afternoon I realize that I left my gun sitting out by the sleeping bag and no one took it. Maybe trusting them is actually the right choice and not just me buying off my guilt.

    There are five of us in Wyatt’s Lexus, all silent and tense on the way to the meeting. I guess I lied about the snake. Wyatt left the aquarium at the old house and brought Monty along, tied up ina pillowcase in his backpack so he won’t get cold and die in an empty house with no electricity for his lamps or whatever. Here is my advice: If you’re ever on the run from the government, don’t bring your pets. Especially not the creepy ones.
    Matty is in back, wedged between Chance’s knees and the front seats, her tail beating my elbow. Kevin is strained and pale, and we all know he needs medical help, and soon. We didn’t have enough money to buy spare shorts or Bactine at the store, so it’s just water and pills, water and pills. Maybe the Citizens for Freedom will have a doctor. Or some antibiotic ointment, at least. We tried stopping by the vet who helped Matty, but a sign on the door said CASH ONLY, AND ABSOLUTELY NO HUMANS , so we kept driving.
    The meeting is supposed to be at Bear Creek High School, which is down a road that hasn’t seen much action since the school closed when I was little. The asphalt is falling apart, and the streetlights are spotty. Red brake lights ahead tell us we’re not the only ones here. A guy in a reflective yellow vest points us to the side, like at a concert, and we turn off the road and park the Lexus in an overgrown parking lot. Figures hurry toward the school, and I can feel my heart beating in my ears as we get out of the car and slam the doors. I have Matty tied up with a chunk of rope from one of the boats at the old house—I couldn’t leave her there alone, so I can only hope we can pass her off as a service dog, if service dog laws still exist. She’s way too excited to be of any actual service.
    Kevin grunts with every painfully slow step, and Chance finally sighs in annoyance and picks the smaller kid up, carrying him like a baby. Wyatt is suddenly at my side, tall and solid, his backpack over his shoulder. My gun is flat against my back—Chance was okay with trading, once his had bullets too. There’d better not be a