I chew on a piece of venison jerky as I watch the city. Near the waterfront a forest of tall buildings crowd together, growing sparser and shorter as they spread outward from the city center. On the edges of the town are groups of houses dotted with small parks and supply centers. I try to remember what they’re called . . . shops.
During the few hours before dusk, a number of cars leave the city and head toward the outskirts. I watch as some drive directly to the houses and others stop first at the shops. The people—tiny as ants from my vantage point—emerge with rolling metal carts full of supplies, pile them into the cars and, once home, transfer them into the houses.
My mind struggles with what my eyes are seeing. People—regular people—are going to work and then coming home to their families. Children play happily in front of their houses, bundled in brightly colored snowsuits. There seems to be plentiful fuel (I count at least ten gas stations), and supplies appear to be abundant.
I try to push my emotions aside—confusion, shock, fear—and use every ounce of rationale I possess. I cannot let myself panic. If I can’t keep a cool head, I might not be able to find my people. And the thought of being alone in the world is one that I’ve had to repeatedly dismiss. The idea is too frightening to consider. I have to remain focused on my goal: finding Whit. Then—together—we will find our clan.
Too many questions are darting through my head. How can this one city have escaped the nuclear catastrophe of World War III? Could it have completely rebuilt itself in three short decades? And if this city survived, did others, too? I watch boats enter and leave the port. They have to be going somewhere.
What I’m seeing is an impossibility: a thriving metropolitan civilization only three days away from our village. I pull my fire opal from my neck and hold it in my palm against the ground. Still no connection with my father. And the wind is giving me nothing at all.
I push away a rising sense of alarm. I’ve never been far from my father—my clan—for more than a day or two on the odd camping trip with my friends. And those times, I enjoyed the solitude, knowing everyone was safe and sound in their yurts. Unlike now. I breathe deeply and try to shed the alarming thoughts crowding in on me.
I change my focus to Whit. I imagine that face I know as well as my father’s, and the Yara shows me his emotions. Fear. Confusion. If I can’t feel my father and I can feel Whit, maybe it means he’s still nearby.
Although the tiny people below don’t look threatening, I don’t want to draw attention to myself. I’d rather watch them like I do my prey when hunting. Observe their patterns. Understand them before making a move. I don’t dare light a fire here on the ridge, else I would use the firepowder to ask the Yara where Whit is. I must wait until tomorrow to use a less conspicuous way of Reading his location.
I scoot back into the tent, securing the flaps tightly behind me, and settle between my layers of furs, listening to the sound of the huskies’ sleeping puffs and the alien sound of civilization in the distance.
The sun has just risen. The city sleeps. I have hidden the sled and bulkier supplies on the outskirts of the city, taking only one large rucksack that I carry strapped across my back. Beckett and Neruda walk protectively on either side of me as we cross through the outlying housing areas.
As we approach the city center, more and more shops appear until we are walking along a broad road lined with businesses on either side. I hear a noise and freeze as a car approaches us from behind. The dogs’ fur bristles and they nudge in closer to me as a man steps out of the car and walks up to one of the shop doors. He takes something out of his pocket and begins wiggling it in the door handle.
Opening the door, he stomps the snow off his boots, glancing briefly up and down the street before stepping inside. Catching sight of me, he smiles politely, nods his head, and calls, “Morning!” And then he disappears into the shop. I remain frozen for another ten seconds, and when he doesn’t come back out with a loaded gun or other deadly weapon, I breathe out my relief in a cloud of warm air.
In my seventeen years I have known only forty-six people. The same people, every day, each of whom I know everything about. And I just saw a man who I will never speak to and will never know. I walk past the shop and see him inside bustling around and—poof—I continue walking and he no longer exists to me. I can hear Dennis teasingly chiding me in school. “Juneau, give us all a break and save the existentialism for our philosophy discussion group.”