Free After the End by Amy Plum

holds a piece of blueberry cake or a coil-spring snake that will smack you in the face.
    The boy doesn’t take my hand. Instead, he follows me out of the library into the parking lot. It’s still raining. I pull up my hood and let the rain drizzle down my jacket, while Miles huddles beneath the building’s overhang.
    “Which one’s yours?” I ask.
    “The Beamer.” Miles points to a silvery-blue car that looks brand-new, and then wraps his arms back around himself. It isn’t very cold, but his shirt is too light for the weather. Doesn’t come prepared, I think, continuing the mental assessment I had begun the moment I saw him.
    I walk to his car and stand next to the passenger side. “What are you doing?” Miles calls.
    “Waiting for you,” I respond. “And getting wet.”
    He gives me an incredulous look. When I don’t move, he leaves his dry spot and jogs through the rain toward me, pressing something on his keys as he runs. I hear the locks click and I open the door, slide in, and stash my backpack in the rear seat. Miles bundles into the car and turns to gape at me. “What are you doing?” he repeats.
    “I could ask you the same thing,” I respond. “You were looking for me. And now you’ve found me. I’ll tell you what I’m doing if you tell me what you already know about me.”
    His jaw snaps shut and his eyes grow wide. Green eyes. I can tell now. They’re the dark blue-green-black of a Denali lake at dusk. The thing about lake water is it’s opaque. You never know what’s hidden underneath.
    “What I know about you? Nothing!” he says.
    I stay silent, crossing my arms as I wait. He sees that I won’t talk until he does.
    “Seriously,” he claims. “All I know is that some people are looking for you. And the locals think you’re crazy because you go around asking people’s names.” He pauses, looking sorry that he said that last part. Understandable. It’s not the kind of thing you would want to mention when sitting in an enclosed space with said crazy person.
    Tactless, I add to my list, and ask, “Do you?”
    “Do I what?” he asks, looking cornered.
    “Think I’m crazy?”
    “Um, I would have to say . . . at this moment . . . yes,” he admits.
    I chew my lip and look out the window at the parking lot. No question about it—I’m sure Miles is the one Frankie foresaw.
    I look back at him and raise my eyebrows impatiently.
    “What?” he asks, looking defensive.
    “Let’s go,” I say.
    “Go where?”
    “To find my clan.”
    His features flip through a series of comical expressions: incomprehension, doubt, surprise, and finally exasperation.
    “Where . . . where do we have to go to find your . . . clan?”
    I lean forward to peer at the point where the sun hides under the rain clouds to get my bearing. “It looked kind of desertlike. Kind of Wild West. It’s in that direction,” I say, pointing southeast.
    “Whoa,” he says, holding his hands up in a defensive gesture. “Listen here. I don’t have any clue what you’re talking about. And I haven’t said I’m taking you anywhere. Much less to the Wild West.”
    “Then tell me why you were following me.” I look at him.
    He stares back at me as long as he can before shifting his gaze away. I just sit and watch him, waiting for him to come around. Finally he sighs and says, “Okay, I’ll give you a lift. But I was headed south, actually. To California. We’ve got a lot of Wild West there. You could ride there with me and then go look for your clan. But I’ll need to make a stop and pick up some . . . stuff first. Clothes. You know.”
    “What’s in the suitcase behind the seat?” I ask.
    “Um . . . clothes,” Miles says, fidgeting. “Yeah, I forgot about that. But I could take you to your hotel if you need to get . . . supplies.” He rearranges his face into a helpful smile and then lifts his eyebrows in a way that I think is meant to charm me.
    Nome would be eating this up, I think.