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anything to say. Maybe making everyone aware that she’s watching will put a stop to it.
    Tap-tap-tap.
    Cyn jumps. The pencil rattles on the floor.
    The sound on the outside door is small. She opens it. Miranda is outside, her arms wrapped around herself. Her clothes are smudged with dirt and grass stains.
    She’s shivering. “Sorry.”
    “For what?”
    Miranda looks down, still shaking. She doesn’t have to say anything else. Cyn knows she feels bad about not going back into the brick house. She’s their only hope to see what’s in there. But she’s so meek. So scared.
    She goes back to the inventory. Cyn gets down to the bottom shelf with Miranda watching her, grateful there are no more gaps to hide.
    “ Can I help?” Miranda asks.
    The dinner house groans against the wind. “You can get the eggs.”
    “I don’t know how.”
    “It ain’t hard. You just go in the coop and pick them up and bring them in here.”
    Cyn fires up the griddle. Mad should be waking up soon. Miranda stands next to the door, shuffling her feet. She’s not asking to help so she can really help; she’s just asking to be polite. Or maybe she’s waiting for Cyn to help.
    “Look.” Cyn pulls plates out of the cupboard. “I didn’t make you go back in the brick house yesterday, but things have got to change. You can help out. Those shoes ain’t made for working, but we ain’t got the luxury to do what we want, understand? It’s cold out there and maybe you’re scared of chickens, but those eggs need collecting.”
    The door shuts. Miranda’s gone.
    Maybe she thought Cyn would take care of her, protect her. Well, maybe so, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to hang around while everyone else carries their weight.
    Cyn eyes the shelf with the missing can of cherries.
    There are enough problems already.

9

    The clouds roll over the sky like a lead blanket, blotting out the sun for a week. Rain leaks from the dreary sky, the wind throwing it against the buildings like pellets. The wind harvesters churn, ceaselessly.
    Miranda stands inside the barn. The doors are wide open, but the wind and rain can’t reach her. The cold, however, always finds its way in.
    She looks puffy, wearing three sweatshirts. If there were more, she’d be wearing them, too. She doesn’t care that they’re stained and slightly damp, or that they smell like mold. The barn smells better. If she hand-washes them with water from the cisterns, they’ll never dry. She’ll never be warm.
    She shivers beneath layers of grimy cotton.
    Filthy. Just like them.
    Jen and Mad spend their time in the dinner house. The kitchen is clean and orderly. The cans are stacked in straight lines and the inventory posted. They found a pack of playing cards in the back of the pantry. Sometimes Kat joins them.
    They never ask Miranda.
    Roc hardly ever leaves the bunkhouse. Except to eat.
    And steal.
    Miranda hears her leave the bunkhouse at night when everyone is sleeping. Miranda hears the back door open, hears her come back thirty minutes later. No one seems to care that she’s stealing.
    Cyn doesn’t.
    She’s out in the meadow. Despite the bitter rain, she paces across the open field, counting her steps. If she’s not chopping wood, she’s out there. Doesn’t say what she’s doing. No one really talks about what they’re doing. Not anymore.
    “Chickens need fed.” Kat drops two steel buckets on the dirt floor.
    Miranda leans over, looks inside: seeds mixed with food scraps from the garden. The wire handles are cold. She carries them through the breezeway and braces for the weather as she steps outside. Mud sloshes beneath her rubber boots. No more shiny shoes. Kat lets her use the work boots as long as she helps with the animals. It’s the price she pays to keep her feet dry.
    The chickens come out squabbling. Miranda quickly heaves the contents through the wire fence, a pathetic attempt to spread the food, but she’s not going inside. Chickens freak her out, the