1
Charity Huntington had known for nearly a year that a book of matches would save her life. That’s how long it had been since her father had the vision of her mother hugging Charity—her mother’s words tumbling with relief—thanking whatever forces had turned him into a psychic for providing that detail to protect her.
Charity’s mother didn’t always thank Providence for her father’s gift so enthusiastically. On bad days, she spent a lot of time complaining about his ability. The government pursued, arrested, and killed anyone with illegal powers. Not many of the Empowereds were left.
That morning, when Charity got ready to climb into the Jeep and head to the trading post with her older brother and sister-in-law, she carried a large matchbook tucked into her jeans pocket and a candle stub in the other. Although the vision only mentioned matches, it stood to reason she’d need a candle too. Her father’s psychic visions didn’t show much. Not enough anyway, just a few vital moments from the future. The family was left to puzzle and guess about the rest.
Charity wandered up to the Jeep and the boxes stacked in the trailer. It contained broccoli, peas, and carrots that the last farm had given them in payment, along with bottles of moonshine, an assortment of shoes, quilts, and a roll of copper wiring. People bartered all sorts of things to farmers for food, and the farmers used it to pay the workers who came to pick the crops.
Her father led a harvesting crew that moved from place to place—farm or ranch, depending on the season—so it frequently fell to her and her brothers to take excess goods to markets to sell or trade.
Milo climbed into the driver’s seat. “I’m driving,” he announced.
“You drove last time,” Charity pointed out.
“Yeah, because I have more experience.”
A self-fulfilling proclamation. Charity was twenty-one and had been driving for years. But since Milo had married Zia seven months ago, the two of them had become inseparable, and it was easier to climb in the back and let them pretend they were alone.
He leaned over and whispered something to Zia that made her laugh. His blond hair was a contrast to her dark brown braid, but their smiles were the same. Teasing and tender. Obnoxiously in love.
Gregor, the middle child in the family, had claimed he was too busy working on one of the trucks to come to the market, but he may have just wanted to avoid the public displays of affection.
The group drove away from the farming compound, bumping along a road that was more potholes than pavement. The Jeep choked out black clouds from the exhaust. They’d been out of gasoline for too long, and the brew they used instead practically left a trail.
The walls surrounding the fields and orchards fell away, replaced by trees, weeds, and litter. Every once in a while, they passed piles of gray, jumbled concrete and rebar, remnants ofdestruction the government hadn’t bothered to clear away. No other vehicle chugged along the road. Most people lived in the cities and either didn’t have cars or didn’t have a reason to drive around in the wilderness.
Zia turned in her seat so Charity could hear her better. “What do you think we’ll be picking up at the market today?”
“Hopefully gasoline.” The other items on their list were antibiotics, cooking oil, canning lids, dish soap, spices, and hydrocortisone cream, in that order of importance.
Zia held back strands of hair that had blown free of her braid. “I mean the thing your father didn’t put on the list.”
Before they’d set off, Charity’s father had told them, a bit mystically, to pick up anything else that could be helpful.
“What sort of thing?” Milo asked him. Most everything could be helpful at some point.
“You’ll know when you see it,” her father said.
Which meant he knew more about this trip than he let on. He didn’t tell his children about all his visions. None of them bothered pressing him for details. If he didn’t give them up front, he’d remain silent regardless of questions or prodding.
Whatever the item was, Milo would probably be able to get it. He could barter with the best of them. His height and muscled build made people think twice about trying to cheat him.
“Maybe someone will be selling sugar,” Charity said. “Every time I see that, I know it should come home with me.” She glanced at the old plaid shirt she’d thrown on to keep her arms from becoming sunburned. “Or maybe we’ll come across a clothes booth with something I can’t resist. If we do, remember, we have Dad’s blessing to splurge.”
“Ammo,” Milo said. That was as good as money if people were willing to part with it.
Zia wrinkled her nose. “Wouldn’t your father have just put those items on the list if he wanted them?”
Yes, which was the frustrating thing. Really, he should’ve given them more information. What if they completely missed whatever they were supposed to buy?
Milo shrugged. “I guess we’ll know it when we see it.”
The GPS blinked out. Country roads were mostly dead spots. Zia took out the map to ensure they didn’t miss a turn.
Charity pulled a worn Agatha Christie novel from her backpack. She was nearly done with her second time through the book and ought to finish by the time they reached the market. With any luck, someone there would have paper books, and she’d be able to trade for a new story.
Technically, Charity went to the markets as the medical supplies expert. She helped her mother with any first aid the harvesters needed, so she knew how to tell the difference between antibiotics and pills like ibuprofen that dishonest vendors sometimes tried to pass off as more expensive medicine.