Page 51 of Cold, Cold Bones

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“Campers, preppers.”

“What’s a prepper?”

“Really?”

I circled a wrist. Go on.

“A person who prepares for a major disaster or cataclysm.”

“Like what?”

“War, worldwide economic collapse, global epidemic, the zombie uprising, you name it. Doomsday preppers gather materials into kits to survive the end of the world. Some create entire locations.”

“Underground bunkers?”

“Maybe.”

I sat back, wondering if MCME 224-22 might have been a prepper.

“What’s the deal on this?” Katy asked, again indicating the firestarter.

I briefed her on the hanging man.

“Any chance you can read the logo on the handle?” I asked.

Annoyingly, she did not need to lean closer to the screen. Or zoom the image.

“COS.”

Our eyes met. She shrugged. I shrugged.

“A survivalist outfitter?” she suggested.

“Let’s give it a go.”

I swiveled the Mac to face me and googled COS. Got links to a company offering contemporary design in women’s clothing, College of the Sequoias, and a zillion office supply outfits.

“Add the keyword survivalist.”

I did.

Got links to wilderness survival programs all over the country. Several to Edward Michael Grylls.

“Who’s—” I started to ask.

“Bear Grylls?” Sounding incredulous at this gap in my knowledge. “You need to get out more, Mom.”

Ignoring that, I added North Carolina to my search parameters.

Katy and I cruised the Google offerings. Lots of action in the Blue Ridge Mountains, in the western part of the state.

We saw the link simultaneously. I clicked over to the website.

“Fucking A,” Katy said.

Wordlessly, I picked up the phone.

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