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with our extended family or other friends. We never had the opportunity to tell them where we were going. Some of them had been to Paul and Sarah’s farm before, and I hoped that they would make their way to us. It was no secret that the farm was Paul’s safe haven. I got the impression that he wasn’t very troubled by the state of the world. To him, it seemed that it had all been inevitable. It was as if he possessed an understanding of human nature and, in particular, of our inherent need for a connection to the natural earth that few of us enjoyed. His aura of peace throughout that time brought the rest of us at least some comfort. A few timesI noticed him looking to the sky with his eyes closed and a slight smile.
    As we wound through the woods on the gravel road that led from the highway, a light snow began to fall. It was a perfect powder snow. The trees glistened beautifully, and as the snow accumulated, the sunlight sprayed a bright, angelic glow through the forest. The air was quiet and still. When we pulled up to the cabin, the roof was covered in a fine white layer, completing the image of the quintessential gingerbread house set on a picturesque rolling landscape. I could hear the stream still babbling, though it was then half-frozen.
    “Make yourselves at home,” Paul said as we started to unload the cars and Maria’s niece and nephew ran off to play in the snow. A few of the men collected wood from the shed and got a fire going inside, and the cabin warmed up quickly. We already felt more at home than we had in a while, with a sense of safety that had vanished from our own homes. The farm was the same as it had always been, untainted by the deterioration of the modern world. It was nice to feel some consistency somewhere.
    Our food supply was getting short, but Paul said there was a neighbor down the road who would help us out—an old man named Abraham. Abraham was a farmer who had lived out there for Paul’s entire life. I would guess he had been there even before Paul’s grandfather had built the cabin. Paul’s description of the old man painted a picture of an eccentric hick—the kind of person I would have scoffed at in days past. Then, it seemed, that was preciselythe kind of person we needed to help us find our footing out there. He had skills and resources that most of us lacked entirely.
    Paul and I took his truck and headed toward Abraham’s farm while everyone else got settled. The few homes out there were separated by many acres of undeveloped land, and the drive took some time, but it was peaceful. I wasn’t used to driving without the sounds of music or a radio show. Instead, the muffled sounds of rubber on snow-covered rock and the hum of the engine took me back to the last quiet moments of ignorance on the morning that it had all begun. The old man’s driveway branched from the same gravel road as our new home, but it was invisible under the snow. The only landmark was an old wooden mailbox with no street number that I imagine was seldom used. It was a long driveway, and Paul kept the pace slow since we could not quite tell if we were on it or not. I think we probably created more of a path than we followed.
    We crested a hill, and I caught a glimpse of Abraham’s house just as I heard the grinding sound of the truck’s antilock brakes. We slid off the road where a tree caught the front passenger side fender and spun us around, and the momentum carried the truck over onto its side, creating a puff as it tumbled softly into the snow. The engine died on impact, the wheels stopped spinning, and for a moment, the two of us were frozen in silent confusion as we tried to regain our bearings.
    “You all right?” Paul asked after catching his breath. I looked over and saw only snow and dirt outside his window.
    “Yeah, you?”
    “Yeah. The bridge is out ahead. I was trying to stop.”
    We smashed out the windshield and climbed out of the truck. Down the hill in front of us were a creek