Page 43 of Hero

Zed uses parts from the useless ATV and a couple of rusty bikes to make a pushcart for our supplies so we won’t have to carry everything we own on our backs. On the evening before we leave, Zed pushes the packed cart up into the bed of the truck and ties it down to make sure it’s secure.

We’ll have a few last things to load in the morning, but otherwise we’re ready to go.

Zed and I have sex again that night. We don’t even talk about it. After we put Rina to sleep, he pulls me toward his bed, and we make love, silent, urgent, and needy under the covers. I’m so scared about leaving the next morning that I can’t drag myself away to sleep in my own bed. I stay with him all night, relieved every time he wakes up during the night to discover that he’s rolled away and pulls me back into his arms, squeezing tightly.

Maybe he knows I need it.

Or maybe he needs it too.

We get up before dawn and silently go through our simple routines of washing up, dressing, and getting ready for the day. Then Zed wakes up Rina, and there’s not much left to do.

While Zed is loading the last of our stuff into the truck, I walk around the cabin and yard with Rina and Buddy, and we say goodbye to everything. The bedroom. Her bed. Her chair at the table. The woodstove that kept us warm in the winter. The rain barrels in the yard. The outhouse. The path down to the river that gave us fish. The garden we worked so hard in. Our favorite tree at the edge of the woods.

We tell everything goodbye and give it a pat farewell. Rina takes it all seriously, soberly thanking everything that’s made up our lives for the past years. She’s not crying. She’s never left a place before, so she probably doesn’t understand exactly what it means.

I understand though. And this cabin has been our home—it’s kept us safe—for so long. I’m fighting tears as we close the front door one final time, patting the wood firmly and saying goodbye.

I don’t want to leave. I wish we didn’t have to.

Zed is waiting for us by the truck. He returns Rina’s hug when the girl runs over to him, but he’s scanning my face over her shoulder as I approach more slowly.

“It’s been a good home to us,” he says, ostensibly to his daughter. He’s still looking at me. “We’ll find another one.”

“Maybe even bigger!” Rina says. “You can have your own room!”

Zed chuckles and releases her, ruffling her hair. I braided it tightly into two braids this morning, but she already has flyaways slipping out. “I’ll be okay without a room. We can make do with whatever we find, right?”

“Right. As long as we’re together! Even Buddy!”

The dog has been following us around, barely leaving a few inches between my heels and his nose. He obviously knows something is happening, and he’s very worried about being left behind.

When I open the passenger door of the pickup, I gesture with my head and make a tsking sound, and he gives a happy yap and jumps inside.

We’ll be cramped with all four of us in the cab of the truck, but I don’t like the idea of Buddy loose in the truck bed while we’re driving. I’d rather be crowded than risk him being hurt.

Rina climbs in after him and sits in the middle of the seat between me and Zed.

Zed climbs behind the steering wheel and leans over to fiddle with the wires until the engine turns over. We’ve got a nearly full tank of gas, so it should take us a good distance. Save us many days of walking.

It’s a blessing we couldn’t have expected.

“Everyone ready?” Zed asks. His tone is warm and relaxed—the way he always talks to Rina—but his eyes are sharp as they rest on my face.

“I’m ready!” Rina exclaims.

“Ready,” I say, nodding at Zed.

I don’t know if I’m really ready or not, but this is happening. And there’s nothing inside me that feels it’s the wrong thing to do.

So we do it. Zed puts the truck into drive, and it’s not long before we’re winding down the dirt road, leaving the cabin and the small acreage that’s defined the boundary of our lives behind.

* * *

The day passes as uneventfully as traveling ever can.

It’s not a straight shot along a well-paved interstate. We take smaller back roads in the hopes of avoiding settlements or fellow travelers, and we can rarely drive faster than thirty-five miles per hour because the pavement is so torn up. But we don’t complain. It’s a lot safer and faster than we’d ever be able to walk.

We’ve compared the map Mack and Anna drew for us with an older paper road map we had in the cabin, so we can keep a fairly accurate track of our location. By the midafternoon, we’ve crossed over the former state line into Kentucky, and we haven’t encountered a single other person.

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