A ring of wind-powered streetlamps illuminates a square-shaped cluster of sustainable homes, with a small garden flourishing in the center. Ten yards beside a leafy row of bush beans and newly ripe parsnips is the rainwater tank I’ve traveled and gambled for. I linger on the outskirts behind a wooden fence, evaluating the risks.

Solar shingles glimmer from every rooftop, exposing corner after corner of defaced surveillance—six cameras all dangling from the gutters, swinging like dead men from their wire ropes. These are just the local farmers’ cameras, used for their own crop security. Why would they be . . .

I shake my head and refocus. I don’t care why the cameras were damaged, or how. Only that it blinds my sprint to the rainwater tank. A fiberglass container that is guaranteed to be locked or require an authorized chip scan.

It matters that I try.

My feet stutter. Ava spoke those words to me. Today, or was it in another life?

Time doesn’t matter; none of that matters anymore. All that matters is water.

I crouch, scurry, and creep the rest of the way to the tank, veering well away from the community garden likely ready with the slightest brush of air to alert those sleeping that I have come to steal their most precious resource like a shameless thief in the night.

Like a coward, Ava’s ghost whispers beside me.

No alarm sounds. I hold up my empty bottle, self-destructively optimistic. I leave my four-inch blade sheathed in my pocket. I won’t need it. The tap will turn, the water will pour, and the dreamers behind the walls will go on dreaming of their fifteen-hour shifts.

I keep up this visualization as I squat on my heels beside the tank, willing it as prophecy. I grip the knob. To my amazement, the tap turns beneath my fingers, and the water pours. How? Why? Vague answers form inside my head, but I let them all disappear, strangely uncurious.

With one last check at every window and shadow to make certain I am alone, I tilt my head below the spout and fill my stomach until it swells, and then until my bottle overflows.

The steel lid from my water bottle, a thin string of rope, five sticks, a wad of kindling, a piece of flint, and the scrape of my blade.

It took half my patience and all my resolve to make the water boil inside the lid. And to wait for the water to boil. But under the teepee of my jacket and over the steady flame, the liquid reached 212 degrees Fahrenheit, and the surface turned bubbly, telling me it was dinnertime.

I added half a cup of the boiling water to my freeze-dried chicken. The instructions said to let it stand for five to seven minutes. I let it sit for thirty seconds and ate my meal in one meager mouthful.

The flame gone, I toss aside my jacket and breathe in the balmy country air. I pack up my supplies, drape my taupe cotton scarf around my head and shoulders, and recline across my rigid bed.

I lie inside an old wooden rowboat I found abandoned in a field. Its splintered, rotting shell rests in the center of a shallow depression, wide enough to have once been a pond. Spiked ends of grass peek out above the stern, their wave-like movements creating the illusion the boat still floats on water. I flick my eyes up, settle in, and gaze at the night sky.

The clouds have cleared, revealing a blanket of a thousand stars, and I wonder whose fault it is I am here. The crippling guilt I’ve carried within me my whole life has told me it was, is, and always will be my own. Or is it yours, Father and Mother, for conceiving me? Or is it the universe’s, biology’s? Some cruel creator’s?

My fingers twitch as sleep pulls me under. My eyes close, my muscles relax, but before I fall too deep, a warm flash of light snaps my lids back open. All at once, my muscles clench and I’m wide awake. The stars dim as four beams of light slash across the sky.

Spotlights.

“Everyone outside, immediately!” a harsh electronic voice commands.

I wrap my arms around my rucksack and slide my hand inside my pocket. My fingers slip through the brass rings of the knuckle duster and crush my fear into the handle of my knife.

“This is a military sweep!” a Guard yells into his megaphone. “Line up for inspection!”

The spotlights change course, and I sneak a single eye above the chipped stern. The sight overwhelms me.

My fingers clamp tighter around my knife as I take in the community farm besieged by armored vehicles, screaming State Guards, piercing searchlights, and hand-thrown surveillance drones flying above the dreaded silver nose of an unmistakable Scent Hunter. All radiate a lethal, manic energy that burns through the field and ignites my wooden hideout. It won’t be long now, they taunt. There are only so many places to hide.

I duck and cover, the drones circling above the surrounded farmhouse. Quickly, silently, I scatter the ashes of my measly fire and shoulder my pack. I pull myself overboard and sink to the ground, landing stiff on my hands and knees. A shaft of light passes over my head, and I drop to my stomach. Heat and sweat are trapped inside my clothes and boots, boiling me with the need to run.

My head and ears sting with a sudden chill, warning I’ve forgotten something.

My scarf.

I scour the grass but find nothing. The drones’ search area broadens. Their infernal blades drown out the shouts.

Leave it. Leave now.

I crawl, inch by inch, into the depths of exposed land, like a toddler trying to outswim a shark. To where? To what end?

The searchlight’s beams return, highlighting the sky above me, hunting, hungry for nocturnal prey scurrying in the dark. Rodents. Sheep. Me.

A shrill cry reaches me as I retreat. “Enough!”

Several voices join in, then I hear the taser guns. The raucous sounds of a scuffle, more stifled shouts, and then the beams of the spotlights disappear, blanketing me in darkness. The whirling hiss of the Scent Hunter falls ten yards behind me. It crashes to the ground right as the thundering boom of a sonic weapon shatters the night air.

I’m too far for its power to reach me. But the people from the farmhouses fall silent. All I hear now are the violent, amplified commands of the Guard.

“Search every house!”

“Search the fields!”

“Arrest any who resist!”

I escaped, leaving the people behind only to delay my fate.

Ava’s last words follow me as I run.

You’re a coward.

Maybe I am.

AVA

“Spaghetti.”

“I’m sorry, please repeat,” a serene, robotic voice replies.

“Spaghetti,” a voice restates doggedly.

Surrounded by soil—the soft earth a comforting stowaway companion—I lift the black tarp covering the top of the truck bed I’m stashed inside. A drive-thru food printer with a bright sign invites hungry customers to “Dine in Tuscany tonight!”

“I’m sorry, please repeat,” the machine says again.

“Spa-ghet-ti,” my driver enunciates slowly.

I was forced to abandon my first ride. When I heard the water truck’s autonomous system announce an upcoming highway change to I-15 South, I slipped off during a slow left turn. I waited outside another charging station for two hours before this farm truck pulled in.

The company logo across the back windshield told me the truck belongs to a local family farm. The bumper sticker shouting “Proud Father of a Wilson Bulldog” told me the truck belongs to a man from Wilson, Montana. After consulting my trusted map, I saw the route will likely head through land that used to be known as the Blackfeet Indian Reservation. Just east of Glacier County.