Chapter 9
Rachel crossed the distance fast. “Can I help you?”
The man at the tailgate turned. He was in his thirties, unshaven, in a stained T-shirt. His companion was older and thinner, with sun-creased skin and dirt along the cuffs of his jeans. Neither backed away.
“County vehicle, right?” the older man asked.
“That’s right. Child services department. The supplies inside are for a minor in my custody,” Rachel said.
A woman sitting in the median with two children beside a sedan called over to them. “We’re just looking for food. For our kids.”
“I understand. So are a lot of people. These supplies are for the child I’m responsible for.”
The younger man shrugged. “Look around. There’s no county anymore. There’s no department. There are just people who need to eat.”
“There’s still a child who needs to eat,” Rachel said.
Her voice stayed even. Heat pressed up from the pavement, carrying the sour smell of stalled engines and warm rubber.
Somewhere down the line, a child cried once before the sound disappeared under the low murmur of stranded people.
She’d used that tone in living rooms where parents explained bruises away, and it worked because it left no room for negotiation.
“Fine. Plenty of other cars,” the older man said.
They moved on and stopped at a Honda Civic twenty yards down the shoulder.
The younger man tried the trunk release.
When it didn’t open, he pulled a flathead screwdriver from his back pocket, worked it into the seam near the lock, and leaned into it.
The trunk popped with a sharp sound that carried across the blacktop.
Nobody shouted or ran over to stop him. He reached inside, removed a gym bag and a grocery sack, and closed the trunk without looking for the owner.
Rachel watched as a familiar rule broke apart in front of her.
Anything left undefended would be taken.
It wasn’t only malice, and it wasn’t even full desperation yet.
The old reasons for leaving other people’s things alone had vanished with the phones, the traffic lights, and the expectation that help was on the way.
Rachel turned back to the SUV and found Sophie studying her.
“You told them no,” Sophie said.
“I did,” Rachel said.
“Most people wouldn’t have.”
Rachel lifted the food bag she’d repacked the previous evening from the tailgate.
It felt lighter than it should have. She’d counted three sealed water bottles, two granola bars, a bag of crackers, and the wrapped mints before they left, but the balance in her hand told her something was missing.
She opened it and saw what her hand had already guessed.
One sealed water bottle was gone. So was a granola bar.
The crackers and mints were still there, but the bag no longer held what she’d packed.
Rachel closed it and set it down carefully.
Sophie watched her without speaking. Her face stayed blank, but her hands were buried in her sweatshirt pockets with too much care.
The plastic bag crinkled softly on the tailgate as the wind worried one loose corner.
Rachel could smell dust and hot vinyl from the open SUV, and the silence between them felt sharper than the road noise.
“Did you take anything from the bag?” Rachel asked.
“No,” Sophie said.
Rachel held Sophie’s gaze for another moment and didn’t press.
The food bag sat on the tailgate between them, lighter than it had been that morning.
Around them, more travelers left their vehicles behind because waiting had started to feel like surrender.
She emptied the vehicle in order, setting each item on the tailgate where she could see it.
Sophie remained several feet away with her arms folded, her eyes moving from the supplies to Rachel’s face.
The first-aid kit came out first. Rachel opened it and counted what remained. Three antiseptic wipes. Half the gauze pads. The roll of medical tape was smaller after she’d used it on the woman from the minivan. Pain relievers, nitrile gloves, and the small scissors were still inside.
She set out the wool blanket, the crumpled emergency foil blanket, and the three remaining water bottles.
Two bottles were sealed. The third was three-quarters full.
One granola bar remained instead of two.
The bag of crackers was intact, and the wrapped mints were still there.
The flashlight stayed dark when she pressed the switch.
Her overnight bag held a blouse, slacks, underwear, socks, and a toiletry kit. The phone charger was no longer useful.
The roadside kit gave her more to consider.
There were jumper cables, a tire iron, flathead and Phillips head screwdrivers, a folding utility knife, three flares in a canvas pouch, a small roll of duct tape, zip ties, and a compass.
The jumper cables were dead weight. The tire iron, screwdrivers, knife, tape, zip ties, flares, and compass could still matter.
Rachel separated everything into piles. The useless electronics went near the rear wheel.
She grouped the rest into medical supplies, water, food, tools, clothing, and navigation.
The paper atlas covered Ohio and the neighboring states.
It was two years old, but the roads hadn’t changed.
She folded it carefully and placed it with the compass.
Rachel counted the food again. One granola bar.
Crackers. Mints. The wrappers made small, dry clicks beneath her fingers, too light against the heat-softened plastic bag.
The sweet smell of the mints mixed with dust and exhaust. The missing sealed water bottle and the missing granola bar still had no explanation.
Rachel looked at Sophie. The girl hadn’t moved, but her right hand had sunk deeper into her sweatshirt pocket.
The fabric bulged at her hip. Sweat gathered beneath Rachel’s collar, and the hot air carried the faint, stale smell of crackers from the open bag.
The traffic around them had gone quiet enough that Rachel could hear the soft scrape of Sophie’s fingers shifting against the sweatshirt lining.
“Sophie, I need you to put back whatever you took from the food bag,” Rachel said.