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it. And with no ration cards, no soil to grow things in . . .
    The next time we stop, I use one of the few coins Chris gave me to buy a piece of bread from a woman who would be about my mother’s age, if she had lived. The woman’s face is narrow, bone-gaunt, and when she passes me the bread, I see the tendons in her arms, as if there is nothing else lying between her skin and bones.
    “Take it back,” I tell her, and her eyes widen. She shakes her head, says, “It is good, I promise you. It is good bread.”
    “No,” I say, pressing it into her hand. “I mean you should eat it.”
    “You gave me your coin,” she says, and when I nod, she frowns, confused, and then disappears into the crowd as if I might come after her and take the coin back. As if I might grab the bread she was willing to give me, the bread I see her cramming into her mouth as if she can’t be bothered to taste it.
    As if she is starving.
    “Now you understand,” Kerr says when the train starts moving again. His voice holds no smugness, though, and when I look over at him, he is fiddling with the collar on his shirt, opening and closing the top button over and over again.

CHAPTER 19
    W hen the sun finally starts to set, it’s oddly bright on the train, as if the last moments of daylight are somehow captured by the metal and then pushed through the windows in bright shards.
    Kerr is staring out the window still, as if he can see past the light, as if he can see something off in the distance.
    I don’t know how he does it. My eyes water like I’m weeping, and yet he, so soft-looking, so pale and round-cheeked, is fine.
    “You must be used to very strong light,” I say, wiping my eyes.
    “Yes,” he says, and his voice is full of pain.
    The door at the far end of the car opens, and the blond soldier from before comes back. He leans over us, smelling of fresh air, food, and drink—so much better than I smell now, after hours of sweat and the muck on my skirt.
    “Would you like something to eat?” he says.
    “Food? ” Kerr says, and I look at him, at the rounded curves of his face, gentle chin and cheeks that do not stretch tight over the bones. Soft, so soft. I despise how weak he is. I cannot wait to leave him behind.
    “Food,” the soldier says, low-voiced, and Kerr glances out the window one more time and then stands up, smiling. His smile is a polished, gleaming thing, practiced and beautiful, and I try not to stare as he says, “I’ll bring you something back, sister.”
    His smile is brilliant. His voice is warm.
    His eyes are cold. Dead.
    I wait until he’s gone, and then make the sign to ward off evil three times. I have to do it with my hand held under my skirt so no one else will see, and I don’t know if it will work or not. I don’t know if protection works when the Saints have turned their faces away from you.
    But then, I made the sign plenty of times before and it never protected me from anything.
    Kerr comes back when I am half asleep, my eyes still stinging from the setting sun, and I squint at him.
    He sits down, looking away. Looking out the window once more. It is growing dark now. There is nothing to see, but still he looks.
    I rub my eyes and look at him again. Kerr’s mouth and chin are red, a strange sick color, like the inside of a cut, and he smells like Liam did after he came to bed and spoke of Sian.
    Kerr sees me looking at him and turns to face me.
    I am the first to drop my eyes.
    The soldier who’d stopped to talk to us comes through the car a little later with a few others, whistling at something that’s said as he tosses a piece of bread at Kerr.
    “You’re handing out food now?” one of the other soldiers says, and the one who tossed the bread laughs and says, “Payment. Besides, it fell on the floor near the passenger washroom. You want it? ”
    The soldiers laugh and go on their way. Kerr tears the bread in half, wiping it clean, and puts a piece of it in his mouth.
    Then he offers the