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"Turn it up."

"Jim Barbour is a professor of religious studies at the University of New Mexico." The old woman on the radio spoke slowly and with precision. "His address is Two Carpenter Court. Those of you near campus, go now, and while you're in the neighborhood, stop by the home of Jack Colclough—"

"Dad—"

"Shhh."

"—a professor of philosophy at UNM. He lives at 1414 Arroyo Way. Repeat: 1414 Arroyo Way. Go now." 

"Oh my God, Jack. Oh my God." 

"Get the food in the back of the car." 

"This is not—"

"Listen to me. Get the food in the back of the car. Naomi, bring your and Cole's clothes out to the garage. I'll meet you all there in one minute."

He ran down the hall, his sock feet skidding across the dusty hardwood floor as he rounded the turn into the master bedroom. Clothes everywhere. Drawers evacuated from a pair of dressers. Sweaters spilling out of the oak chest at the foot of the bed. Into the walk-in closet, stepping on shoes and winter coats. He reached for the highest shelf on the back wall, his fingers touching the pistol case and two small boxes of ammo, which he crammed into the pockets of his khaki slacks.

He returned to the bedroom, dropped to his knees, his stomach, crawling under the bedframe until he grasped the steel barrel of the Mossberg, loaded and trigger-locked.

Then back on his feet, down the hall, through the kitchen, the living room, foyer, right up to the front door, the light beam crossing adobe walls covered in photographs of his smiling family—vacations and holidays from another lifetime. Beside the door, from a table of wrought iron and glass, he grabbed his keys, his wallet, even his phone, though there'd been no signal the last twenty-four hours. Jammed his feet into a pair of trail shoes still caked with mud from his last run in the Bosque, not even a week ago. He didn't realize how badly his hands were shaking until he failed on the first two attempts to tie his shoelaces.

Dee was struggling to fit a sleeping bag into a compression sack as he came down the steps into the garage.

"We don't have time for that," he said. "Just cram it in." 

"We're running out of space."

He grabbed the sleeping bag from her and shoved it into the back of the Land Rover on top of the small cardboard box filled with canned food.

"Throw the packs in," he said as he laid the shotgun on the floor against the backseat.

"You find the map?" Dee asked.

"No. Just leave the rest of this shit. Here." He handed her the plastic gun case and a box of 185-grain semi-jacketed hollow points. "Load the Glock."

"I've never even shot this gun, Jack." 

"Makes two of us."

Dee went around to the front passenger door and climbed in while Jack closed the cargo hatch. He reached up to the garage-door opener, pulled a chain that disengaged the motor. The door lifted easily.

Cool desert air filled the garage. The spice of wet sage in the breeze reminded him of cheap aftershave—his father. A lone cricket chirped in the yard across the street. No houselights or streetlamps or sprinklers. The surrounding homes almost invisible but for the gentlest starlight.

He caught the scent of cigarette smoke the same instant he heard footsteps in the grass.

A shadow was moving across the lawn—a darker silhouette of black coming toward him, and something the shadow carried reflected the interior lights of the Land Rover as a glimmer of silver.

"Who's there?" Jack said. 

No response.

A cigarette hit the ground, sparks scattering in the grass.

Jack was taking his first step back into the garage toward the open driver's-side door, realizing everything was happening too fast. He wasn't going to react in time to stop what was about to—

"Don't come any closer." His wife's voice. He looked over, saw Dee standing at the back of the SUV, pointing the Glock at a man who had stopped six feet away. He wore canvas shorts, thong sandals, and a cream-colored oxford pollocked with blood spatter. The glimmer was the blade of a butcher knife, and the hands that held it were dark with blood.