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had it been to make that decision?
    When Eleanor thought about having to do the same, she knew the decision would be an easy one. She wasn’t attached to her house, or to Phoenix. Even though she’d lived there most of her life, she’d never felt like she belonged. Her mom and Uncle Jack, they were her home. When it came time for Eleanor to hang on to something, to refuse to give ground to the ice, that was where she would make her stand. That was why she was going north.
    She turned away from the refugees and found her next bus, climbed aboard, and a short ride later, she arrived at the city’s general aviation airfield. Phoenix’s Sky Harbor airport still ran nearby. Eleanor could see its terminal and flight tower in the distance across the tarmac. But the planes over there carried only travelers heading south. The airlines rarely ever sent a passenger flight north.
    Eleanor’s only chance would be here, and she had to get on a plane soon. The tremulous sun had just crested the horizon. Uncle Jack would be awake soon. He’d probably assume Eleanor was asleep in her bed and let her be for a little while. But not for long. Eleanor had no idea when the G.E.T. would show up for her Sync, but she planned to be in the air with it heading north before then.
    Cargo planes of all sizes sat on the tarmac, maintenance crews scrambling over and around them, tanker trucks with antifreeze hosing them down, guys with Ping-Pong paddles directing pilots for takeoff from the ground. There were lots of large buildings and hangars squatting in clusters. Windowless, industrial structures, muted paint fading and peeling.
    Eleanor realized she had no idea where to go or how to go about this. She needed a pilot heading to Barrow, ideally. But failing that, a pilot at least flying to Alaska. She figured the chances of that were good, since Alaska had become a hub for oil dealing in North America, and that was where most of the supply-laden northbound flights would be headed.
    But what should she do? Just go up and ask someone? Hey, I don’t suppose you’d mind taking a twelve-year-old girl on your plane?
    The other problem was the fence. There was onlyone gate she could see onto the airfield, where vehicles were checked, and Eleanor was pretty sure the security guards working there wouldn’t just let her through. But she adjusted her pack and walked toward it, trying to keep her head up, like she knew exactly where she was going.
    As she approached, she noticed what looked like a big red shed with a white metal roof just a bit down the road from the gate on her side of the fence, a few trucks and other vehicles parked in front of it. A stenciled sign above the door read PROP STOP CAFE . Eleanor didn’t know what a “prop stop” was, but it sounded like it might be a plane thing, and if the café had that kind of name, it might be the kind of place pilots hung out. Maybe she could talk to someone in there about flying north.
    The building looked like a shed on the inside, too, with rough wooden walls and floor. But it was warm and clean, and it smelled of bacon and butter. Eleanor had left her home that morning without eating breakfast and felt suddenly hungry.
    There were several men and women at the tables, some of them wearing regular coats, some of them wearing the utility gear she’d seen on the ground crews out on the tarmac, all of them a bit rough-looking. She didn’t see any waiters or waitresses, though. Just awindow back into the kitchen, where a large man with a yellow bandanna tied around his head hunched over a steaming griddle.
    â€œFeel free to seat yourself!” he called to Eleanor over his shoulder.
    The men and women she passed stared at her as she sought out an empty booth and took a seat, setting her pack on the floor. Were any of these people pilots? What should she do, stand up and make an announcement? Go around the room whispering? She needed to know which, if