I tear myself away from studying the route to Arlo Chapman and analyze the starving beasts still at their post below. They probably haven’t eaten in days; I bet their bellies don’t even know what it feels like to be full. They’ll stay here for hours, days maybe, at the possibility of food.

“We should sleep in shifts. There’s nothing to do but wait them out,” I say, turning away from the roof’s edge. A waiting game of who is more desperate: them or us.

Mira has already placed her long vest over the chipped metal solar shingles to act as a sheet. “We need to eat first,” she says and holds out a piece of smoked meat.

I take a last look at the lifeless houses that surround us and join my sister on the makeshift bed. When we were children we used to love sleeping on pallets we made together underneath a castle of blankets. Sometimes we could even persuade Father to join us in our imaginary kingdom. There was something magical about sleeping on the floor as a child, away from your bed. But that magic is lost on us tonight.

“Give me your arm,” Mira says.

I rest my head against her shoulder and let her drape my microchipless wrist across her knee. She removes my bandage and dabs a clear liquid to encourage the cells to regrow without stitches over the raw skin where I cut out my chip. I stare at her skilled, careful hands as they work. Hands trained to heal. I study my own hand on her knee, following the thin lines etched into my palm like interconnecting rivers on a map. But all the lines lead to nowhere.

Just like that, it hits me how I’ve been severed from every anchor I was tied to my entire life. My father is gone. I have no home. I don’t even have a microchip—my identity. Everything I’ve ever known floats farther and farther away as I continue to drift unmoored into the vastness like a lifeboat lost at sea. I’m going to drown.

“We need to try and rest,” Mira says, rescuing me from the water with a tight squeeze of her hand.

“I’ll take the first watch,” I say, but Mira stands before I can get my legs out from under me.

“I was able to sleep briefly on the rail. It’s your turn to rest.” She removes a knife from her pocket, no longer holding it like a healer but like someone ready to defend—to hurt—if necessary.

The purpose of her hands has changed.

“Wake me in two hours,” I say.

I pull my sleeve down over my freshly bandaged wrist and settle onto the improvised bed. Scared and bloodshot, my eyes remain open. I tighten the grip on my own knife, and my heart jumps every time a noise breaks the silence.

Mira startles awake and is on her feet the moment the first crash of thunder explodes across the sky.

“It’s just a storm. We’re okay,” I say, my eyes never leaving the dogs that stalk the yard beneath the house. A deep whine pulsates inside their throats, and their heads turn in agitated, aggressive movements.

Mira joins me at the roof’s edge—now using her vest to block out the wind instead of as our bedsheet—and observes the thunderstorm in the distance. Dark clouds hang heavy with moisture, but because the air below them is so dry, most of the rain will likely evaporate before it can quench the parched landscape.

Another loud thunderclap sets the dogs into an onslaught of barking, and they snap at one another viciously. “They’re terrified,” Mira says.

A thunderous boom vibrates the ground, and the pack breaks into a frenzy of high-pitched yelps. Their conflicting urges to fight for food or fly to safety are driving them into a blind panic.

This is our moment.

“They’re distracted. We can divert their attention,” I say.

“Our food,” Mira says, reaching for her rucksack.

I turn my back on the dogs and scan the roof. With the giant tree in the front yard dead and the roof littered with debris, it doesn’t take long to spot the Y-shaped piece of wood I’m looking for.

“What can we use as tubing for a catapult?” I ask Mira.

She slides her hair tie off her wrist and tests its elasticity. “We can cut this in half and use a thick cloth as our barrel.”

I carve a notch with my knife into each forked prong of our makeshift slingshot while Mira severs a corner of her shirt with a pair of scissors. Cutting a slit on each side of the cloth, I slide the pouch across the hairband and tie the ends into place, then walk to the edge of the roof.

“Aim high to get the distance,” Mira tells me.

She loads a piece of leftover steak from the dinner party into the barrel, and I fire straight into the pack. An all-out brawl for the scrap of meat ensues.

Mira reloads and I launch two more shots, each one aimed farther away from the house. The dogs race for the food, clawing and biting each other’s necks in their desperation.

“It’s working,” I say.

Mira and I quickly shoulder our packs and move toward the opposite end of the roof facing the backyard, but we discover the rainwater tank has been knocked to the ground. The dogs must have tipped it over in the night.

“Roll on your landing,” Mira says.

I scan the lawn for a padded place and detect a thick patch of weeds a few yards away. I swing my body over the edge, hang for a moment by my fingertips, and let go. The ground comes up quick, and I tuck and roll to my side, away from the house.

I rise to my feet next to my umbrella, now completely shredded and useless. Good thing I packed an extra one, meant for Father. He’s still helping us, even in small ways like this.

Mira falls in beside me. Jaw clenched in pain, she nods that she’ll cope, and we take off down the street, lightning flashes guiding our path.

Half an hour later we haven’t found a single street sign left in the entire neighborhood, and I’m about to give up hope locating the safe house before daybreak when Mira rushes ahead of me.

“Ava, look,” she says, pointing.

I see nothing but shadows and the dark outline of houses until another bolt of lightning illuminates a slanting street sign with the name “Esmond Avenue” reflected in blocky white letters.

A renewed energy flows through my veins, encouraging my heavy legs to move faster down the street toward the man Father wants us to meet.

It takes another quarter hour of searching before we stop in front of a sad-looking two-story home with boarded-up windows. Nothing about the house distinguishes it from the countless rows of dull, mass-produced designs except the yellow color painted on the door.

The numbers 3505 hang crooked above the entryway.

Together Mira and I climb the stone steps to the porch before we separate, each moving to look through a different window.

“I can’t see anything,” she says.

I signal to her with a nod, and we loop around to the side of the house and use the collapsed fence to peer inside a group of bay windows. I see nothing but an overturned couch. No people. No signs of life. No Chapman.

“Should we knock?” Mira asks at the back door.

The idea of adhering to such a formality seems ridiculous, but I give a tentative knock anyway.

No answer.

I knock harder, and the door creaks open.

Mira and I glance at each other before we walk through the doorway, alert. We enter into a dark, still kitchen. The cabinet doors are all unlatched; several empty food cans are scattered across the countertops. Everything useful has been raided here just like at the factory.

“Hello?”