Chapter 72
Rachel spent the remainder of the day working because standing still hurt more than moving did.
She inventoried the pantry shelf by shelf and confirmed what Walter’s notes had already told her.
Very little usable food remained. A half-empty bag of rice, two dented cans of beans, and a jar of peanut butter scraped nearly clean.
Walter had taken what the children needed.
Rachel couldn’t fault him, even as she divided the rice into portions small enough for their packs.
She replenished their medical supplies from the bathroom cabinet.
The mirror showed a thinner face with new lines around the eyes, and she looked away.
In the basement, she selected tools Walter had left behind.
She packed them so the weight would sit against her spine rather than her healing side.
From the hallway closet, she pulled a heavier sweater that had belonged to Walter and would fit Sophie, sleeves rolled.
Her own jacket was wearing through at the elbows.
She found a replacement in Hannah’s closet.
It smelled faintly of her daughter’s shampoo, and carrying that trace west felt better than leaving it behind.
She spread Walter’s notes across the kitchen table and compared them against her maps.
The caravan’s stops matched small towns along state routes where churches or community centers might have organized shelter.
Rachel marked each one with a pencil cross.
The route curved southwest from Brenton, then west into Indiana.
The distance was manageable on foot if the weather held.
The afternoon light shifted toward evening.
Rachel climbed the stairs to Hannah’s bedroom and stood in the doorway for a long time before entering.
The room held her daughter’s absence in every detail Rachel had already cataloged.
She sat on the edge of the bed and placed her palm flat against the blanket where Hannah’s body should have been, pressing the fabric down.
Five and a half weeks had carried her there.
She had left home for another work assignment despite Hannah’s resentment, believing duty justified absence and sacrifice proved love.
Some part of her had trusted Hannah would someday understand why her mother kept choosing other people’s children.
Hannah had survived the collapse, carried water, watched warehouses burn, and documented the emptying of her neighborhood in handwriting that grew tighter each week.
She had written Rachel’s name in a margin and believed, against whatever evidence surrounded her, that her mother would find them.
Rachel sat on the bed until the light outside turned.
She didn’t cry. That release had emptied somewhere east of the Keller farm, or in the grange hall classroom where fever made certainty impossible.
What remained was quieter and harder to name.
She had failed Hannah before the EMP ever struck.
The collapse had only made the failure impossible to ignore.
When she returned downstairs, Sophie already had her backpack open on the living room floor.
The girl reorganized supplies with efficient movements.
Medical items went into the outer pocket.
Food was divided by type. Water bottles were secured so they wouldn’t leak.
She didn’t look up when Rachel entered. Rachel sat on the couch and watched her work.
Sophie had stopped expecting adults to manage every detail.
The wooden bird from the Keller farm rested beside her knee.
“You don’t have to come,” Rachel said. “We’re not completing a placement anymore. I can’t promise what waits between here and Hawthorne, or whether any of this leads anywhere except farther from whatever safety you might find somewhere else.”
“You need to quit acting like I’m still cargo you’ve been dragging across Ohio. I chose to come this far. I’m choosing again. If you want me to leave, say it. Otherwise, stop talking about it like it’s a decision you get to make for both of us,” Sophie said.