There was no point responding, so I bit my tongue. Argos was really the only one who seemed happy to see us, and he circled the Sisters, trying to determine if they were friend or foe.

Hasty introductions were made, and I couldn't help but notice how Hope's eyes widened when she met Cat. Their handshake, too, lingered longer than the others. Like they knew each other or something.

"Why isn't there a fire?" I asked.

"Ask him," Dozer said, referring to Cat.

"Too risky," he said. "Can't let the Brown Shirts know our position."

As we went to bed that night-Sisters huddled under one tarp, Less Thans huddled under another-my eyes kept landing on Hope. Despite the haunted expression, despite the ragged clothes and the scarf that barely covered her shaved head, I thought I'd never seen anyone more beautiful in all my life. And I swear I could actually feel the touch of her skin, her soft body beneath my hand, the brush of her lips against mine.

But who was I kidding? Once she found out my secrets, she wouldn't want anything to do with me.

We woke to steady rain. After eating our small allotment of nuts and raisins, we headed up the mountain, trailing the stream. We took turns walking and riding horses. All of us were soaked to the bone and our bodies shivered uncontrollably.

But when we stopped that night, we still didn't dare build a fire. Too risky. So we huddled beneath our separate tarps. The only sounds were the familiar ones: aspen trees dripping rain; nickering of horses; muted pounding of river.

At the end of three days, my teeth were chattering, my fingers were pruned from wet and cold, and bloodstains painted my jeans from where the saddle chafed. As miserable as I was, it was the hint of freedom that kept me going-the idea that if we survived all this and made it into the next territory, we wouldn't be Less Thans anymore.

It was nearing dusk when we rounded a bend and spied the river's source: a lake, stretching a good mile in all directions, with water gushing over a spillway at the end nearest us. A steep mountain stood at its northern border, scarred by a landslide of boulders. There was no way we could get our horses over that kind of terrain.

Perched on the lake's edge was a little log cabin, bordered by two outbuildings: a faded red barn on the near side and a dilapidated shed on the far. A tendril of smoke ribboned from the cabin's stone chimney.

On the other side of a grove of aspens was a large, fenced-in garden and an empty corral. Closer at hand was a newer garden, a shovel leaning idly against the trunk of a tree. All in all, the ranch looked like something from a picture book. An oasis in this godforsaken landscape.

Except this oasis included an old man standing on the porch-with a shotgun in his hands. A shotgun aimed directly at us.

What little hair the man had was white and unkempt, pointing in a hundred different directions. He was unshaven, his shirttails untucked, and there was a wild look in his eye.

"Just passing through, are you?" he asked, his mouth partly hidden behind the stock of his 12-gauge.

"That's right," June Bug said, dismounting. He was only five feet tall and looked downright dwarfish standing next to his horse. Still, despite his small stature, we trusted him to speak for us.

"Ain't nothing in this direction. Best turn around."

"We were hoping to cross the river."

"Be my guest." The man shot a snide look toward the raging spillway.

A couple of us shivered in our saddles. The thought of another night in the open rain was more than we could stomach.

"Maybe we could rest here for the night. Sleep in your barn. Eat some food if you could spare us some. Then we'll be on our way tomorrow."

"I ain't got but food for one. And that's me." The old man worked his jaw restlessly from side to side. White spittle formed at the corners of his mouth.

Although he denied the existence of others, I wasn't convinced. I wondered if there were other guns trained on us that very moment. A glance at Hope and some of the other Sisters told me they were thinking the same thing.

"Fine. Then just let us stay the night. We won't be in your way, and we'll catch our own dinner." June Bug gestured to the lake. A series of circles marked where fish were rising for insects in the waning light.

The man shook his head more vigorously than before. "Nope. No staying in my barn, and no fishing in my lake."

Hope took a step forward. "I doubt it's your lake, Mister," she said.

"If I say it's my lake, it's my lake. Now git!"

"We don't mean you any harm. We just want to eat and get dry."

The man took a closer look at the crew of us, eyes sweeping past the Sisters and settling on the guys. "Why should I trust a bunch of Less Thans?" he shouted, saliva now spewing from his mouth. "If it weren't for you all, maybe those bombs wouldn't've gone off and we wouldn't be in the position we're in today."

So there it was: exactly the kind of thinking Cat said existed out there. We'd been sheltered from it in camp. No wonder those Hunters wanted to kill us; in their minds, we were the source of the world's problems.

"Look, Mister," June Bug said, "we didn't have anything to do with the position we're in today. All that happened long before we were born. If anyone's to blame, maybe it's you."

The man gave his head a vehement shake. "Don't you be puttin' that on me. I don't bother no one. We've just been mindin' our own business."

The word "we" prompted me to look around.

For the first time I noticed a neglected automobile off to one side. It was covered in a thick layer of dust and ash. Judging from the weeds and pine needles bunched around its tires, I guessed it hadn't been driven in years. Maybe decades.

"Now git!" the man went on. "I ain't fooling here." He brought the gun up.

"You don't mean that," Hope said.

"Try me." He cocked the shotgun. "Then see if I don't mean it or not."

No one said anything. We were desperate. Cold, half starved, weary to the point of collapse. The prospect of sleeping under a roof-even if it was the roof of an old barn-seemed the height of luxury. And yet what could we do? He had a gun and, it seemed, every intention of firing it.

A pungent odor suddenly tickled my nose. Because I'd been the last to ride up, I was closest to the barn. The door was slightly cracked and I was able to peek in. I expected to spy some sickly farm animal lying in its own dung.

But it wasn't that at all.

"We'll finish it for you," I blurted out, surprising myself.

The other LTs and Sisters looked at me as if I was half crazy. The old man turned my way, and I could see down the long, dark barrel of his shotgun.

"Finish what?" he asked gruffly. A dare more than a question.

"The grave," I said. "We'll finish digging the grave."

"I AIN'T ASKING YOU to do that," the old man murmurs.

"We know that," Book says. "But we'll finish it. It's the least we can do."

At first, Hope and the others have no idea what he's talking about. But there it is in the barn: a coffin, handmade of polished pine, resting atop two aged sawhorses. A kerosene lamp hangs on a post and drops a yellow glow on the coffin's top.

Now that Hope sees it, it's easy to piece together. A coffin. The smell of a corpse. A neglected shovel next to a half-dug hole. It isn't for gardening at all.

The old man shudders. "It may not be possible. Soil's awfully rocky here."

"I'm sure we can find a way to dig a hole," Book says.

"It's gotta be long enough."

"We know."

"And deep. No less than six feet."

"We've had experience with graves." Hope notices the assurance in Book's voice. Like he knows what he's talking about.

"I ain't got food enough to feed you. Don't be thinking just because you do this I can be all loaves and fishes."

"We're not expecting anything. We're just going to help you out, that's all." Book dismounts, grabs the shovel, and spears the tip into the ground. It clangs when it hits rock. He lifts it and casts its contents to the side. In no time he's working up a sweat. After a few minutes, Red takes the shovel from him and he begins digging.

Then Hope joins in. And Scylla. And soon, everyone is bent over on hands and knees, some with knives, others with bare hands, all scratching into the soil to deepen the hole. The grave.

The old man's 12-gauge lowers to his side, forgotten.

When the grave is finished, the twenty-eight stand back and admire their work. Sweating, chests heaving, hands covered in dirt-but they've done it.

"I'm much obliged," the old man murmurs.

Stars burst in the sky like popcorn. Little tufts of light against a coal-black backdrop. June Bug gives Book a nod and he takes a tentative step forward.

"What do you want us to do now?" he asks. The man's head snaps up, almost as though he'd forgotten they are there. "Shall we lower the coffin in the grave?"

He shifts his gaze until it settles on the pine box and gives a little nod. Hope and a group of others move to the barn and swing open the doors. When they get to the coffin, bathed in its cone of amber light, the smell is noticeably stronger. Rank, even.

They strain as they lift it from its trestles. Helen follows with the lantern. For the first time Hope can see the coffin's handiwork. Beveled edges, clean seams, the carved design of a rose-it looks more like fine furniture than something to be buried beneath six feet of rock and soil.

They reach the graveside, lower the coffin to the ground, and hesitate. Now that they have it out of the barn, how will they actually get it down into the bottom of the grave?

"Ropes," Twitch says. "Two sets." Hope has already figured out he's the engineer of the bunch.

Using ropes and aspen limbs they create makeshift pulleys and the four strongest-Dozer, Cat, Red, and Scylla-lower the coffin.

The old man rests his shotgun against the railing and shuffles to the graveside. He bows his head, mumbling something about shepherds and green pastures. When he finishes, his eyes glisten with moisture.

He picks up the shovel, thrusts its tip into the mound of freshly dug earth, and casts the contents into the yawning grave. He hands the shovel to Red and motions for him to continue. Soon all of them are scooping and kicking the dirt back into the hole.

When the ground is once again flat, the old man hobbles to the far side of the aspen grove and retrieves a wooden cross-two branches nailed together. He spears the cross into the earth and takes a step back.

"'Spect you'll be wanting someplace to stay," he says.

"If it's not too much trouble," Book answers.

"I don't run an inn."

"Any shelter would be worth it."

The old man considers it. "The barn'll do ya. You can spread the hay around."

He turns and starts to go.

"And food?" Book asks.

The old man stops. "There's smoked fish drying from the beams," he says. And then, grudgingly: "Help yourselves."

He shuffles the rest of the way to the cabin, grabbing the railing to hoist himself up the steps. Before he opens the door, June Bug calls out, "Thank you."

The old man hesitates. Hope thinks he is going to acknowledge the comment, maybe even thank them for digging the grave. Instead, he slips inside and shuts the door firmly behind him. The dead bolt clicks.

The Sisters and Less Thans stagger into the barn and see them: rows and rows of smoked fish-lake trout-hanging from the beams like icicles. Hope's mouth waters at the sight.

Twitch begins pulling them down and handing them off. They try not to eat more than their share, but it's impossible not to gobble the food ravenously.

Hope watches Book as he drifts away, finding a spot in a far corner to make his bed. As he's fluffing the hay into something vaguely resembling a mattress, he spies a rope dangling from a thick cedar beam. And a milking stool beneath it. The rope ends in a loop.

No, not a loop-a noose.

Another story easy to put together: an old man, unable to dig a grave for a loved one, was going to hang himself-and would have, if he hadn't been interrupted by twenty-eight young intruders.

Hope watches as Book steps up on the stool and untangles the rope until it's simply that: a coiled rope hanging from the ceiling. Hope notices the care he uses in untying the knot, how he quickly surveys the room to make sure no one sees him. But the two of them catch eyes-then quickly look away.

As her body collapses into her own crude bed, Hope wonders about Book's past . . . and the secrets that he carries.

DUST MOTES DANCED IN sleepy diagonals. Since falling asleep however many hours earlier, I hadn't moved an inch; I was in exactly the same position as when I'd lain down. So was everyone else: Less Thans in one part of the barn, Sisters in another. My eyes found Hope and lingered there. Her breathing was steady and calm-soothing to watch.

From outside came a steady, muffled ffft . . . ffft . . . ffft. It was too quiet for a hammer. Not violent enough to be an ax.

I staggered to my feet, ripe barn smell scenting the morning air. When I edged outside I saw Flush and Twitch firing arrows into haystacks. Flush pulled back an arrow and sent it flying. It sailed wildly, landing in a bed of weeds. Ffft.

"Any chance the old guy has more food?" Flush asked.