The little boy ate my bullion cube-and-carrot soup fast enough, but the girl swallowed it down like it was her first hot food in weeks. I sat with my .22 across my lap and the girl’s six-inch boot knife in my belt and watched. I watched the way she kept her eyes on my feet as she ate, the way she crouched against the wall, the way she kept givin’ the kid these protective glances. I recognized that way. There was a lot I recognized about her.

When she finished her third bowl I asked, “You have people somewhere?” When she shook her head, I asked, “Where do you come from?”

“Don’t matter,” she said. “How’d you lose your arm?”

“Don’t matter,” I said.

She nodded. “All that matters is where I’m going.”

I nodded. “So don’t go to Andersonville. Not to look for electricity or guns.”

“That’s not what I’m lookin’ for,” she said. She sat her bowl on the floor and pushed it away. Tears were running down her face. She looked exhausted all of a sudden. She looked her age, which was too young to be livin’ in this world alone. “I’m lookin’ for someplace safe… that will stay safe. Someplace that will stay.”

I just nodded. The kid had already curled up and fallen asleep on my bedroll, and soon she joined him. She lay down with her back to him at first, but eventually rolled over, threw an arm over him and spooned in close. I kept silent watch. I was feeling my age, too old to be livin’ in this world alone.