After the End

“A word of advice, girlie,” the man calls as I open the door and gulp in the frosty outdoor air. I glance back at him, and his face has changed. He got what he wanted and his greed is satisfied, so he is happy. “Take out that weird contact lens, cut the hair, and lose the dogs.”

I nod at him and let Beckett and Neruda run outside. “And if I were you,” he yells, as I shut the door behind me, “I would get as far as you can—as fast as you can—out of town.”

I decide to take his advice. At least what I understood of it. Whit’s captors are sure to be watching the harbor, so it will be my last stop. Before that, I have a lot to do.

The woman in Beulah’s Hair Emporium takes one look at the huskies and calls, “It’s cold outside, so the dogs can come in, but they have to stay by the door. We have sanitation regulations, you know.”

I flick my finger, and they immediately drop to lie next to each other under a potted tree. “Wow, you’ve got yourself some obedient dogs there,” Beulah (I suppose) says, and instructing me to hang my coat on a rack, leads me to a chair. “What would you like, dear?”

I point to one of the giant hairstyle photos hanging on the wall.

Beulah gapes at me. “Oh, honey, you can’t mean that. You have such beautiful long hair.” I stare back at her, determined.

A half hour later the dogs and I leave. My hair looks just like the boy’s in the picture.

On the same street as Beulah’s Hair Emporium is a large, bright clothes store called the Gap. I leave the dogs at the door and follow the MEN’S DEPARTMENT signs. The artificial light and mirrors make me dizzy, but I deep-breathe and walk downstairs to an underground floor. The stale air makes it feel like a spot-lit tomb.

I leave twenty minutes later wearing all-new clothes, a baseball cap, and a black parka. My new synthetic backpack bulges with five shirts, a red “hoodie,” three sweaters, and three pairs of jeans. After buying some hiking boots at a shop next door, I drape my bulky fur parka and hand-stitched leather rucksack over a garbage can outside and hope that someone like the old lady in the park will find it.

Then the dogs and I head to our final destination together.

“These are beautiful huskies. Can’t say I’ve seen their exact markings anywhere on the sled-dog circuits. Where did you buy them?”

The woman ruffles Beckett’s fur with her fingers and peers up from where she crouches on one knee in front of him.

“My family’s been raising them for a few generations.”

“What’s your family’s name?”

“Will you take care of my dogs for me?” I cross my arms over my chest. My heart hurts so much it feels like my brain is bleeding.

She stands. “Our boarding fees are five hundred dollars per month for one dog. For two it’s nine hundred. I take care of these dogs like they’re my own kids.”

“That’s what the woman at Beulah’s said.” My voice cracks. I can tell that Beckett and Neruda like her and, from that alone, I know she can be trusted.

“How long do you plan on leaving them?” she asks, her tone softening as she sees my emotion.

I clear my throat. I won’t cry in front of this stranger. “I don’t know. But I will be back for them.” I dig through my backpack, count the money quickly, and place it in her hand. “Here’s three thousand dollars.”

“That’s a lot of cash to be carrying . . . ,” the woman begins to say, and then gasps when she sees what I place in her hand on top of the money.

“And that’s insurance,” I continue. “In case I don’t make it back in three months. I want to know that these dogs will be well cared for and stay with you for the rest of their lives.”

“I can’t take that!” The woman’s face is white with shock.

“Trade it for cash if the money runs out. Otherwise, you can return it to me when I come back for the dogs.” I sink to my knees between Beckett and Neruda and pull their furry heads toward me. I can’t stop the tears now; they are streaming down my face. “Good-bye, friends,” I whisper.

And then, standing, I turn and walk out of the ke

* * *

The harbor’s ticket office is a small boxlike building with windows that look like mirrors from the outside but that are see-through on the inside. Above a counter hangs a board listing destinations, dates, and times. For the last few hours I have pushed from my mind every thought but those that facilitate my departure. But now, seeing three dozen cities listed on the departures board, my shock returns in full force. All those cities that we thought were destroyed in the war still exist.

I imagine how astonished my father must have been a few days ago when he discovered that the war never happened. All the protective measures we took to avoid brigands were in vain. Our isolationist mentality kept us from discovering that an outside world still existed.

The flame in my chest burns brighter. Once I’m reunited with my clan, we will discover together what’s actually happened to the world during the last three decades. But right now I have to find them.

I scan the names of the cities as I consider which could possibly be the answer to my oracle’s cryptic clue, “You must go to your source.” And then I see it. Seattle. That’s where my parents came from. Where they lived before I was born. It is my source, in a ma

“How much is a ticket to Seattle?” I ask the teenage boy behind the counter. I keep my eyes lowered. The startled reactions of the salespeople and the woman at the ke

“Round-trip that’ll be one thousand ninety-four dollars,” the boy says, “two thousand if you want a private cabin.”

“I only need to go one way,” I say, digging into my pack for money. “How long does it take?”

“Four days, eight hours,” he responds. “When do you want to leave?”

“Today.”

“You’re in luck. We have a boat embarking in a half hour,” he says, pointing to a shiny blue-and-white ship at the far end of the harbor. A thrill passes through me as I realize that I will actually be riding on a boat. A few days ago, I wouldn’t have ever expected to see one. I feel like I’m in a dream—like I’ve suddenly been popped into some sort of strange new world.

A long line of people pull rolling suitcases up the boat’s lowered gangplank. I hoist my pack onto my back and shove the ticket the boy gives me into my parka pocket. “Have a good trip,” he says in a voice that indicates he couldn’t care less whether my trip is good or not.

I am three steps away from the ticket office when I see the men. They are dressed the same as the ones who held Whit in the fire-Reading vision. And they are seated yards away from the loading ferry.

Slowly, I back up behind the edge of the ticket office, careful not to draw their attention. Once I’m out of sight, I poke my head out to watch them and am paralyzed by fear. They are checking out every passenger who gets on the boat. Carefully.

I reach automatically for my dogs. It takes a second for me to remember that I no longer have Beckett and Neruda for protection, and at that thought I’m struck breathless by grief. They couldn’t help against these men anyway, I tell myself, remembering the bloody masses of fur throughout our village. I suck the cold air into my lungs and accept the fact that from now on, I am truly on my own.

I peer into the mirrored window beside me. I look like an adolescent boy. It’s only when I speak that I give myself away. Even so, I wonder how quickly it will take these men to figure out that the adolescent boy boarding the ferry by himself is actually the girl they’re searching for. Not long, I think.