After the End(3)

“And be careful not to—”

“—cross the boundary. I know, Whit. I’ll be careful,” I promise.

“All right then. I’m off,” he says, and gathers up his pack from atop his sled.

My father appears from behind the neighboring yurt. “Sneaking away again, Whit?” he teases.

“I hate long good-byes,” Whit responds with a smile. “And I’ll only be gone two weeks.” He turns and straps the sled’s rope across his chest, and disappears down a path in the woods.

“I still don’t understand why Whit won’t take dogs on his retreats,” I say.

My father puts a hand on my shoulder and walks with me back toward our home. “He has his own way of doing things,” he replies.

We reach the main encampment. The smell of dinners cooking and warm puffs of smoke exiting the crowns of the yurts makes my stomach rumble.

Dad and I push through the door flaps to see Beckett and Neruda lying lazily by the fire, keeping watch over the steaming stew pot.

“So how is my warrior princess?” he asks, as I hang my crossbow from a side beam and begin shucking off my moccasins and parka. “Did Whit say he was sending you hunting?” he asks.

“I leave tomorrow morning,” I respond, as he begins ladling out bowls of moose stew. He hands me a bowl and spoon, and I join him in front of the fire. I blow on a steaming spoonful of meat and take a bite. Nestled in the warmth and security of our yurt, I think for the thousandth time of how lucky we are. Dad and I have each other. We have a good life, while the world outside our boundaries is nothing but radioactive waste, bands of marauding brigands, and for anyone else who might have survived World War III, an existence filled with misery and despair.



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HarperCollins Publishers

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2


MILES




“AS I HAVE EXPLAINED, I CAUGHT YOUR SON cheating on his final exam.” Ms. Cochran, my English teacher, makes a face like she smells something rotten as she holds up my minuscule rolled-up crib sheet. I force myself to keep a neutral expression in front of my dad and the principal, but shrink down into my chair.

“Since when was cheating on a test grounds for expulsion?” my dad exclaims.

Mr. Riggs, the principal, glances at the open file on the desk in front of him and runs his finger down the page. “When a student has had two previous suspensions for bringing alcohol and drugs onto school grounds.”

My dad clears his throat. “Well, perhaps we can talk further about it, like we did on those occasions,” he says, glancing at Ms. Cochran. If she wasn’t here, the conversation would already have turned to donations my dad’s company could give to the school, but judging from the dark look on Mr. Riggs’s face, I doubt that would work this time.

“Yes, well, I know that in your case there have been mitigating circumstances, but we can’t keep making your son an exception to the rule. Billingston Academy has a strict three-strikes-and-you’re-out rule, and I’m afraid I’m going to have to enforce it in your son’s case.”


A few days later Dad gets a call from the Yale admissions office saying that my enrollment is on hold until they receive some proof that I am “receiving help for my behavioral issues.” And that’s when Dad comes up with his mail-room plan.



UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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3


JUNEAU




MY ARROW FLIES TRUE AND THE GREAT BULL CARIBOU slumps to the ground. I sling my crossbow over my shoulder, and the virgin snow crunches under my moccasins as I sprint across the field to kneel by the beast’s heaving side. “Thank you,” I say as I draw my knife from my belt. I pet the bristly fur of his muzzle and look him straight in his huge glassy eye. And then I slit his throat.

Some of our hunters go into a whole long prayer to the spirit of the animal when they kill. But Whit once told me that respectful treatment and a thank-you equaled all the lofty words in the world. I have to say I agree.

As I clean my knife in the snow, I whistle for Beckett and Neruda to bring the sled over. But they’re already on their way, their wriggling bodies bursting with excitement as they bound through the icy drifts. I sling the leather straps over the top of the beast and push the iron dowels underneath its body to pull the straps around.

This bull must weigh two hundred pounds—twice my weight—but with the help of my puller, the dogs and I manage to shuffle him over and onto the sled within minutes, the undulating crimson line he leaves in the snow as bright as a ribbon on a wreath of white lilies.