It was the hour when everything changes. The birds, the insects, the worms in the grass—all know this. Cicadas were buzzing in the trees.

* * *

75

1700: Greer and Patch had been waiting in the tanker truck for two hours. Patch was reading a magazine—reading or perhaps just looking at it. It was called National Geographic Kids; the pages were brittle and popped out when he turned them. He nudged Greer on the shoulder and held it out to show him a picture.

“Think it’ll be like that?”

A jungle scene: fat green leaves, brightly colored birds, everything wreathed in vines. Greer was too preoccupied to look very closely.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Patch took it back. “I wonder if there’s people out there.”

Greer used binoculars to scan the horizon to the north. “I doubt it.”

“Because if there is, I hope they’re friendly. Seems like a lot to go through if they’re not.”

Another fifteen minutes passed.

“Maybe we should go look for them,” Patch suggested.

“Hang on. I think this is them.”

A cloud of dust had formed in the distance. Greer watched through the binoculars as the image of the convoy took shape. The two men climbed down from the cab as the first vehicle drew up.

“What kept you?” Greer asked Peter.

“We lost two buses. A busted radiator and a broken axle.”

All of the vehicles took diesel except the smaller pickups, which carried their own extra fuel. Greer organized a team to pour the diesel off into jugs; they began moving down the line to refill the buses. The children were allowed off but told not to wander far.

“How long is this going to take?” Chase asked Greer.

It took almost an hour. The shadows had begun to stretch. They had fifty more miles to go, but these would be the hardest. None of the buses would be able to travel more than twenty miles per hour over the rough terrain.

The convoy began to move again.

—

The dock had been filling for seven hours. Everything was ready—batteries charged, bilge pumps on, engines ready to fire. Chains had been fixed to hold the Bergensfjord in place. Michael was in the pilothouse with Lore. The sea had risen a yard past the waterline—within a reasonable margin of error but disturbing nonetheless.

“I can’t stand this,” Lore said.

She was pacing around the tiny space, all her energy suddenly having nowhere to go. Michael picked up the microphone from the panel. “Rand, what are you seeing down there?”

He was moving through the corridors belowdecks, checking seams. “All good so far, no leaks. She seems tight.”

Higher and higher the water rose, wrapping the hull in its cold embrace. Still the ship refused to budge.

“Flyers, this is killing me,” groaned Lore.

“That’s not an expression I’ve ever heard you use,” Michael said.

“Well, I kind of see the sense of it now.”

Michael held up a hand; he’d felt something. He willed all his senses to focus. The sensation came again: the tiniest shudder, rippling through the hull. His eyes met Lore’s; she’d detected it, too. The great creature was coming to life. The deck shifted beneath him with a deep moan.

“Here we go!” Lore cried.

The Bergensfjord began to lift from her braces.

—

At the end of the block, the Denali appeared, turning the corner with painstaking care. Carter stepped into the road and positioned himself in its path. He did not hold up his hand or in any way indicate his wish that it should stop. He stepped aside as the car came to a halt in front of him. With a hushed, mechanical purr, the driver’s window drew down. Crisp air and a smell of leather flowed out onto his face.

“Mr. Carter?”

“It’s good to see you, Mrs. Wood.”

She was wearing her tennis clothes. The silver packages in back, the baby seat with its mobile of plush toys, the sunglasses perched on her head: all the same as the morning they’d met.

“You’re looking well,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed on his face, as if she were attempting to read small print. “You stopped me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I don’t understand. Why did you do that?”

“Why don’t you pull into the driveway? We can have us a talk.”

She glanced around in confusion.

“You go on now,” he assured her.

Rather reluctantly, she turned the Denali into the driveway and shut off the engine. Carter stepped to the driver’s-side window again. The motor was making a quiet ticking sound. Hands locked on the steering wheel, Rachel stared straight out the windshield, as if afraid to look at him.

“I don’t think I’m supposed to be doing this,” she said.

“It’s all right,” Carter said.

Her voice sharpened with panic. “But it’s not all right. It’s not all right at all.”

Carter opened her door. “Why don’t you come and see the yard, Mrs. Wood? Kept it nice for you.”

“I’m supposed to drive the car. That’s what I do. That’s my job.”

“Just this morning planted one of those cut-leaf maples you like. You should see how pretty it is.”

For a moment she was silent. Then: “A cut-leaf maple, you say?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She nodded pensively to herself. “I always thought it would be just the right thing for that corner. You know the one I mean?”