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Before I get an answer, a woman in her fifties with tanned skin and piercing blue-grey eyes approaches us. She's dressed in camo pants and a long-sleeved shirt and has a rifle over her shoulder.

"You must be Silas," she says, using his real name. "It's nice to meet you. The guys said you got everything we needed and then some, so thank you for that."

It takes me aback. I don't like the idea of anyone knowing his real name. It doesn't feel safe.

"Why don't you grab some breakfast, and I'll get your keys and a map for you."

"Great," he says. "Thank you."

"I'm Wendy," she says to me. "What's your name?"

I stare straight ahead with my arms crossed in front of me. I'm not falling for it. I don't need a third mother figure to try to shoot me.

"Is she mute? Deaf?"

"Nope," Tate says. "Just angry and jaded."

I narrow my eyes at him. If I'm angry and jaded, then what the fuck does that make him?

"That's okay," she says. "We've had quite a few runaways. They always show up like this. Do you have any warm clothes? A real winter coat?"

Again, I refuse to answer.

"Noah…" Silas says, his tone reprimanding as he nudges me.

"No," I tell her. "I don't have a winter coat in my modest garbage bag of belongings."

"You're not here against your will, are you?"

"Not entirely."

"Noah, take this seriously," Silas says. "Please."

I sigh. "No. I'm nothereagainst my will. Existentially? That's debatable."

"Veronica?" she calls out.

A smaller Black woman turns around, making eye contact with Wendy, and crosses the room.

"This is my wife, Veronica," she says. "Veronica, why don't you take Noah and let her look through the things Lorna left behind? She looks like she's about the same size."

"Sure," she says. "Follow me."

She takes a few steps forward, pausing when she realizes I'm not following her.

"Go," Tate says. "I'll go with you."

I follow her through the main room and down a hallway until she stops in front of a storage closet, pulling out a cardboard box withLornawritten across the front in cursive.

"What happened to her?" I ask. "Did shedisappearbecause she didn't follow the rules?"

"She left," Veronica says. "People come and go. They're not prisoners; it's not uncommon for them to move on after a while. You should take these," she says, handing me a grey Carhart jacket and a couple of hoodies. "What's your shoe size?"

"Eight and a half," Tate answers.

"These are nines," she says, handing Tate the boots. "But they should work for her. She'll need to wear two pairs of socks out here in the winter, anyway. You should take these jeans, too, but they might be a little big."

"Thanks," I say.