Page 5 of Homestead

“What border?” He’s said that twice now, and I have no idea what he’s referring to.

“The border of The Wild,” he says with a frown. It’s clear now from the way he says it that the final words are capitalized. “The border is gang territory. It has been for years. No decent folk go there. You never shoulda been there.”

“Aren’t you decent folk?” I stare at him with wide eyes.

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” He clears his throat. “We take turns patrolling out this way every few weeks to make sure the gangs aren’t encroaching any further. Today’s my turn for patrol.”

“I see,” I say, although I don’t. Not really. I have no idea who or what he’s even talking about.

“You really from The Wild?” He keeps darting me little looks as if he can’t believe I’m real.

“If The Wild is that forest, then yes.”

“How did you even get in? Been blocked since Impact by the gangs.”

I frown, thinking this through. “My grandfather and I were there before Impact.”

“And you’ve been there all this time?”

“Yeah.”

He stares at the blowing grass in front of us and says softly, “We never knew anyone was even in there.”

I’m not sure how to reply to that, so I don’t say anything.

After a few minutes of driving, he asks, “You got any other people besides your grandpa? Family or friends or whatever?”

I shook my head. “My parents died a long time ago. All I had was my grandfather. Now…”

I almost choke. On grief and shock and absolute terror.

How the hell am I even going to survive in the world? I can’t get back home, and I have no one.No one.

Except this big, unfriendly man who has evidently decided he has the right to make decisions for me.

“Where are you taking me?”

He blinks, looking surprised. “Goin’ back home.” He pauses and evidently realizes he needs to give more explanation. “Not my home. My mom and dad got a farm. They got some extra room. They can help you out until you can get back home or… figure somethin’ out.”

I let out a breath. Parents sound safer than this strange man.

He’s got holes in his jeans and a ripped seam in his shirt. His hair and beard really need to be trimmed and look kind of dirty. In addition to his rifle, he’s got a pistol in a holster at his hip, and I see part of a smaller one on his ankle, not quite covered by his jeans. He doesn’t smell as bad as Grandpa always did, so that’s something. But he doesn’t appear inclined to smile.

“What’s your name?” I finally ask.

“Oh. I’m Jimmy. Jimmy Carlson. What about you?”

“I’m Chloe.”

He stares at me for what feels like a long time. Then he shakes his head like he disapproves.

“What?” I demand.

He mutters, “Don’t know what the hell your grandpa was thinking takin’ you out here. You’re way too little and pretty to be out here on your own.”

My spine stiffens. A swell of indignation rises inside me. How dare he judge Grandpa? He has no idea about our circumstances or how well my grandfather took care of me. He doesn’t know anything.

But I bite back my instinctive response.

---