A manhunt, I think. Now this sounds interesting.

9

JUNEAU

ON THE THIRD DAY I BEGIN NOTICING EVIDENCE of brigands. Until now, the huskies and I have managed to elude any signs of life. Yesterday we came within sight of a paved road. I avoided it, steering the dogs away and putting a sight-blocking ridge between us and that relic of a dead civilization.

But today, as we near the coast, we are forced to cross one road, and then another. Seeing no sign of humanity, I resign myself to following along it at a distance. After a while a small structure comes into view—a type of complex built in glass and wood with two plinth-like machines standing in front of it. I immediately recognize what it is from the photos in our books: a gas station—this one obviously abandoned. A fuel reserve would have been cached beneath the pumps and used to fill cars with gasoline. Although the sight fills me with a sort of excited horror, I can’t help but smile. It’s my first real glimpse of the world outside the one where I’ve spent my entire life.

The sides of the building are plastered with weathered artwork—advertisements, I remind myself, rolling the word around in my mouth like honeycomb candy—that are half falling off and rusted through.

The dogs pay no attention to the place as we speed by, and once it has disappeared from my vision, I breathe my relief. I have seen the outside world and nothing bad has happened.

As we pass a couple of other abandoned buildings—one with a burned-out wheel-less car parked eternally outside—my confidence grows. Brigands aren’t hiding behind every corner, as I have always imagined. Maybe the ones who kidnapped my clan are the sole survivors. Maybe I will be able to not only find my clan but somehow set them free.

As this flash of hope pierces like a sunbeam through my mind’s dark clouds, I see something else on the horizon. Something moving. Coming along the road toward us, just a speck in the distance but growing larger by the second. “Whoa!” I yell, and steer the dogs off the road behind one of the patches of fir trees that has begun to regularly punctuate the treeless expanse of tundra.

The dogs flop flat on the ground, panting, and I spread the white skin tent over the sled, making us invisible against the snow. I huddle behind and watch as the car grows larger by the moment. It resembles one of the army vehicles from the EB—like a Jeep but twice as big, and bright red like a field poppy.

My heart skips a beat. The car is brand-new. Not thirty years old. Not rusted out or cobbled together from spare parts like the brigand vehicles that Kenai draws to illustrate Nome’s wild stories.

This car looks like it was built recently. But I know that’s impossible. How could a car factory exist in a dying world? Unless the brigands have organized themselves. But even so . . .

The car speeds past our hiding place, and I get a glimpse of its passengers: a man drives and a woman sits next to him. They’re laughing. And behind them in the backseat is a child.

They don’t look like desperate survivors of an apocalypse; they look like a happy family.

I crouch, stunned, as the car disappears into the distance. After a minute, I shake myself out of my confusion and force myself to move, pulling the tent off the sled, stowing it, and directing the huskies to run. I don’t have time to waste.

As the sled lurches forward, I automatically reach for my fire opal. I feel lost, but my amulet reminds me that no matter what strange things I find in this new world, the Yara will be there to guide me. And a grain of comfort settles in my heart.

We are almost to the coast. I can feel the change in the air and smell it in the wild, briny gusts of wind. The dogs’ pace quickens as they speed toward this unknown factor. They’ve never been outside our territory either, being the third generation of dogs raised in our clan. But from the joyful wiggle in their strides, I suspect that knowledge of the sea is embedded deep inside their psyche.

We reach the top of the ridge, and I leap off the sled to view the magnificent vista spread before us. The ocean in all its wide wild grandeur. The stories I heard and photos I studied didn’t do it justice. Its wind-whipped waves extend all the way to the horizon, going on forever, while shrieking white birds dip and dive over its surface. Tears spring to my eyes, and I feel the thrill of discovery course through my veins.

Then my gaze lowers and the world slams to a stop. I manage to keep my knees locked for a moment but then crumple to the ground. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t do anything but kneel in the snow and look at the impossible.

Beneath me lies a city. It is not in ruins. It isn’t decimated by war and poisoned by radiation. It is a thriving city with massive glass buildings glistening in the late-afternoon sun. People—not dangerous brigands, but normal-looking people—are walking down its streets. Cars that look brand-new—more rounded than the ones in the EB—are driving down the roads and are parked along their sides. This is not a postapocalyptic wasteland. Where am I? What is going on?

My throat clenches so tightly that I cough and then gasp in the cold air. My body is numb with shock and my mind a jumble—thoughts stumbling and tripping and then stopping altogether. I sit. And watch. And try to understand.

10

MILES

I JUMP BACK FROM THE DOOR AS DAD COMES stomping out of his office. “Son, were you waiting to see me?” he asks distractedly.

“Nope, just dropping off the mail,” I say, and hold up a couple of envelopes as proof.

“I’m leaving in a few hours for that weekend conference in Denver that I couldn’t get out of,” he says, already walking away. “And after that, there’s some business elsewhere I have to take care of, so I’m not sure when I’ll be back. But I’ll be checking in with you, and I asked Mrs. Kirby to stay at the house.”

“But Dad!” I protest. “I’m eighteen freaking years old. I don’t need a babysitter.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel about eight.

Dad turns and gives me the eye. “It is precisely because you are eighteen years old that you need a chaperone. I’ve got enough on my plate at the moment. I don’t need you getting into any more trouble.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say, but he’s already gone.

11

JUNEAU

WE SPEND THE NIGHT ON THE TOP OF THE RIDGE, watching, waiting. I want to understand this city before I set foot in it. The sleeping dogs heat the tent with their warm breath, and I lay half-in, half-out with the tent flaps tucked in around me to keep in the warmth. I am not cold. There is a flame burning inside me since my clan disappeared, and this new mystery has made it burn hotter.