We were all set to laugh again when Four Fingers blurted out, "Brown Shirts! Coming this way."

The laughter died in our throats.

"HOW MANY?" FRANK ASKS.

"Six. On dirt bikes."

Hope tenses. She knows what the Brown Shirts-and Dr. Gallingham-are capable of.

Frank rises from his chair. "A few of you, take the horses and go hide in the boulder field. Now git!"

June Bug, Four Fingers, and Scylla dash out of the cabin. Argos trails after them. The rest begin putting away dishes so the soldiers won't suspect anything.

"Where should we hide?" Flush asks. He looks on the verge of throwing up.

"Under the barn. There's a space beneath the floorboards."

"And they won't find us?"

"Not unless they know to look there."

Everyone races to the barn. The drone of dirt bikes grows louder.

When the Sisters and Less Thans step inside the barn, Hope's heart sinks. Strewn about are clothes, packs, saddles-everything they own. And twenty-eight mattresses made of straw.

Frank isn't fazed. "Grab your stuff and bring it here." He drops to his knees and sweeps away a layer of straw. Then he begins prying up floorboards, revealing a small pit of dark earth beneath the floor.

They stuff everything down there-canteens, saddles, bows and arrows, slingshots-then they spread the hay around.

"Now climb in and I'll cover you up," Frank commands.

Nearly all of the twenty-five manage to fold their bodies into the small cavity, but there isn't room for Cat, Book, and Hope. They look at Frank, alarmed, but he just lays the wood planks back in place and hammers in some nails.

"Don't worry," he says to those beneath the floor. "We'll come git ya." Then he turns to the remaining three. "Come on."

He leads them out the rear of the barn to the back door of the cabin. Just as the screen door shuts behind them, Hope hears the first of the dirt bikes pulling up. Frank drags a footstool to the middle of the kitchen, ventures onto the bottom step, and pushes up a ceiling tile. Stale, musty air comes tumbling down.

"Git up there and don't move," he says in a sharp whisper.

Hope goes first, then Book and Cat. They scramble into the attic, brushing away cobwebs and mouse turds. The panel slips back in place, throwing them in black.

There's a rapping on the door, followed a moment later by muffled voices. Frank's, of course. And a man who identifies himself as Colonel Westbrook.

There's a tiny hole in the attic floor, and with just slight maneuvering Hope can look down and see Frank and Westbrook sitting opposite each other like a couple of old friends having afternoon tea. Surrounding them are three Brown Shirts.

"No idea at all?" Westbrook asks, his voice dripping kindness.

"If I knew, I'd tell ya," Frank says. "I got nothin' to hide. What'd they do that was so terrible, anyway?"

"They ran away."

"You mean escaped."

"I mean ran away. We have no fences. We're a resettlement camp, trying to help boys adjust to the complexities of a life without parents. That's all."

"Then why'd they run away?"

Westbrook laughs good-naturedly. "You know kids. A rough day at school. Not getting along with friends. Who can say? The important thing is they need our help. You know as well as I they'll never survive in these mountains."

"And what if I were to say I don't believe it's no orphanage?"

The colonel's voice tightens. "Then you'd be wrong."

There's a long moment of silence. When Westbrook speaks again, the pleasantness is back in his voice. "I'm a military man. I do what the Eagle's Nest tells me. Do you think I want to head up an orphanage in the middle of nowhere? Don't you think I'd rather be on the front lines, fighting the terrorists that brought on Omega?"

"Just followin' orders, huh?"

"That's right."

"Doin' what Chancellor Maddox bids you do?"

"Something like that. And if it's for the good of the country as it tries to pick itself up from the ashes, I'm not the least bit apologetic about that." His voice grows thick with emotion. "I love these boys-I do-and I can understand their running away. But we're not talking about running out to the neighborhood grocery store. We're talking life and death here." His eyes get all teary and he asks, "You're certain you've seen no sign of them?"

Frank shakes his head. "Wish I could help you out."

"No strange sounds? No missing food? Nothing like that?"

"I think I'd know if I heard something."

"Yes, of course." Westbrook doesn't bother to hide his displeasure.

Hope realizes the colonel has been asking about the Less Thans, not the Sisters. He must not know they're traveling together. She wonders if that's a good thing or not.

Book is lying next to her, his arm pressed tightly against hers, his skin radiating warmth. Even in this moment of peril, with the enemy several feet below her, she feels a shudder of pleasure. Of possibility.

The screen door bangs and brings her back to the present. Another Brown Shirt has just come in.

"Nothing in the barn," the soldier says. At the sound of his voice, Book inhales sharply.

Hope looks at him, and Book mouths, "Sergeant Dekker." The name means nothing to her-but it obviously does to Book.

"It's just a big, empty barn," Dekker goes on to say. "However"-he pauses dramatically-"there are fresh horse droppings in the corral."

"Of course there are," Frank chimes in. "Horses poop. It's what they do."

"And where are these horses now?" Colonel Westbrook asks.

Frank shrugs. "Who can keep track? They come, they go. They're horses."

It seems like Westbrook wants to say something, but holds his tongue.

"One other thing, too," Dekker adds. He points out the window to the grave. "Should we dig it up?"

Frank shoots up from his chair like a rocket. "You lay one hand on that dirt and I'll see to it you get buried as well!"

Dekker goes for his sidearm, but Westbrook motions for him to leave it holstered.

"Now now," the colonel says, placing a hand atop Frank's shoulder. "No one's going to dig up a grave, if that's what it is."

"Of course that's what it is, you jackass. What else do you think it'd be?"

Hope can see the color rise on Westbrook's face. It's obvious he isn't used to being addressed this way. "And whose grave might it be?"

"My wife's. Buried her a few nights ago."

"I see. And you built the coffin?"

"If you don't believe me, I'd be happy to make one for your friend there."

Westbrook actually smiles. "That won't be necessary. I'm sure you're a man of many talents." Then he adds, "Let's just hope lying isn't one of them."

Frank doesn't respond. Hope can see his jaw is set, his teeth clenched. It's the Frank they encountered when they rode up that first night.

"So you built this coffin by yourself?"

"I just said so, didn't I?"

"Where?"

"Where else? The barn."

"And carried your wife to it?"

"She weren't but skin and bones by the time she passed."

"Right, right." Westbrook paces around the room. "So I'm not clear on one thing. How'd you get the coffin to the grave?"

"I dragged it," he sputters, not nearly as convincing as before.

"By yourself?"

"That's right."

"All the way from the barn to that grove of aspens?"

"If you want, I'll demonstrate with your friend there. He's dead weight."

This time Westbrook allows Sergeant Dekker to unholster his weapon and point the barrel at Frank's forehead. "I'd be careful about getting on Sergeant Dekker's bad side," Westbrook says. "He happens to have a bit of a temper."

Frank doesn't flinch. Finally, Westbrook leads the Brown Shirts to the door.

"You keep an eye out for those boys," he says, then steps outside, the screen door slamming behind him. A few moments later Hope hears the coughing ignitions of six dirt bikes, and the buzz of their engines receding in the distance.

Frank lowers himself in his chair. It's another fifteen minutes before he makes even the slightest move.

By the time they all reassemble in the cabin, Frank has a map spread out on the dining room table. With a shaking index finger he points to a snaking line of mountains due east-on the other side of the lake.

"There's a trail here I used to follow when I'd hunt elk. It's steep and rocky, but you should be able to hike it."

"Where's it lead?" June Bug wants to know.

"To a pass. Follow that along the ridge to the very end. There's a desert down below called the Flats. You'll want to avoid it for as long as you can. And keep your eyes open for wolves. They're different now."

"Different how?" Twitch asks.

"Just different."

Hope tries to swallow but can't.

"And once we get down the mountain?" June Bug asks. "What then?"

"Cross over the Flats and make your way to the Heartland."

"The Heartland?"

"The next territory."

A silence falls over the group. For many of them, it's the first time they've heard the name of their destination.

"You still haven't told us how we get there," Dozer demands. "You're pointing to a ridge, but how the heck're we supposed to get across the lake?"

"How else? Boats."

They make their way to the shed. The boathouse.

It isn't much bigger than an outhouse and it lists to one side, its black timbers old and rotting. They peer into the dark interior and there before them are the mingled shapes of wooden crates, rusted bicycles, old TVs . . . and two rowboats. Everything is piled atop everything else.

They clear the rowboats and drag them to the thin grass that borders the lake like a margin on a page. Even in the falling twilight Hope can see holes as big as fists in the rotting planks.

"If we plug those gaps, you could leave in the morning," Frank says.