We continue up the Hudson, never slowing as morning morphs into late afternoon. Logan guns it hard, the roar of the engine ever-present, determined to get as far away from the slaverunners, from Manhattan, as possible. The entire morning I am on edge, looking and listening for any signs of anything.

But after more time passes, I begin to relax. Logan finally slows us just a bit, to cruising mode, and the engine quiets. I look over and see Rose, now fast asleep in Bree's arms. Bree leans back herself, eyes closed, Penelope in her lap. Ben sits slumped over, head in his hands. And Logan just stares, eyes fixed on the water, expressionless as always. The entire energy on our boat is more relaxed.

Logan slows the boat even more, and I wonder why, when I look out at the water and see huge chunks of ice. They become larger and more frequent as we go. Logan is slowing to avoid them, and he swerves us left and right constantly, weaving in and out. All of this ice concerns me, especially as I feel a bitter wind cut into my bones, feel it grow colder with every minute. The sky, bright just hours ago, is now thick and grey. In fact, a fog is even beginning to settle on the water. I feel a storm coming.

Suddenly, flakes of snow began to fall from the sky. They are large, soft flakes, and they feel reassuring as they land on my cheek, as if something is still pure in the world, still working as it should. They make me think of childhood, of happier times, when I loved the snow. When it meant no school, playing with my friends. Now, though, it just means being colder, wetter. Now, it is just an inconvenience.

Within minutes, the snow becomes blinding, whipping into our faces, whiting out the sky. It becomes hard to even see.

Logan slows even more, and I wonder if we are out of gas. I hurry over and stand beside him and glance at the gauge: less than an eighth of a tank, but not redlining yet. I don't understand why he's slowing, until I look up ahead and see it for myself: there, before us, sits an island in the middle of the Hudson. It's not huge but it's not tiny either: maybe a half mile long and half as wide. It's long and narrow, ringed by a sandy shore, and covered in thick trees, many of which are pine, covered in snow. I see Logan staring and I know what he's thinking. He turns and looks at me.

"We're nearly out of gas," he says. "And riding in this storm is asking for trouble. The ice is getting thicker and the river is hardening. We continue like this, we might sink her. And it will be dark soon. We can push it, or we can park on this island, wait it out here until the river thaws and the storm passes." He studies the skies. "If we push it, we might find ourselves out of gas and with no shelter. We know what happened last time we parked on the shoreline. Being on an island might be safer."

"I agree," I say. "It's safer."

He sighs.

"Not that I want to park," he continues. "I don't. We need to keep moving. We need to put as much distance between us and them as we can. We need to head north, and find fuel. But we have to ride out this storm. And I think an island is a safer place to do it. Maybe we stay a few hours. Maybe even overnight. Let it pass, then keep going. Who knows: maybe we'll even find something on it, maybe some hunting, or something to salvage."

"For once, I think we agree," I say, and can't help smiling.

Logan tries to suppress a smile, but I see it.

"Let's circle it," I say. "Make sure there's nothing hostile and find the best spot to dock."

"Agreed," he says.

Logan turns the boat, taking us around the perimeter of the island. It has a shallow shore, maybe ten feet deep, waves lapping lightly against it. Bordering the sand are thick trees, providing a nice shelter in every direction. As we come around the other side, I watch the trees closely, looking for any signs of movement. I see none. But then again, this island is deceptively big, and the trees are thick: there could be anything in there. I doubt, though, that there are any people. I don't see any evidence of it: no boats, no footprints. Maybe there could be animals in there. Maybe deer, or fox, or something else. My mouth waters at the thought.

We circle around the other side, nearly finishing our loop, when I spot a perfect place to dock the boat: an outcropping of rock juts out into the water, along which we could tie the boat and have it protected from the elements on two sides. Even better, the rock continues onto the land, morphing into a small mountain, inside of which is a large opening for a cave. It couldn't be more perfect: we can take shelter in that cave to wait out the wind and the storm - all while keeping an eye on our boat.

I reach out and point at it.

"I'm on it," Logan says. "One step ahead of you."

He cuts the engine as we get closer and we drift for the rock, out boat turned sideways. I grab the rope, head to the bow and jump off as we reach the shore. I land up to my ankles in the icy water, and it stings as it cuts through my leather boots. But I'm happy to be back on land, and I waste no time in grabbing the boat and yanking it up on the sand. Logan jumps out and helps, and together, we manage to yank it up a good five feet onto the sand. I tie the rope securely around the anchor hole in the front of the boat, then hand it to Logan, who finds a notch in the rock around which to wrap it. He tries it several times: it's secure. Our boat's not going anywhere.

The lack of movement finally snaps Ben out of it, and he lifts up his head and looks around for the first time. He looks at me, bleary-eyed.

"Where are we?" he asks.

"Our new home," Logan says.

"Until the storm passes," I add.

For a moment I wonder if Ben is going to argue, to voice a different opinion, maybe be mad at us for deciding without him. But he just gets up meekly out of the boat. His spirit is broken, and he barely seems to know where he is.

I jump back in the boat, hurry over to Bree and Rose. They are fast asleep and I gently wake Bree. As her eyes open, she immediately looks not at me, but at Rose, fear and worry etched into her face.

I examine Rose myself, and am equally afraid. She does not look good. She's paler than I've seen her, and while I know she's asleep, I can't help feeling that her face looks like that of a dying person. I look down at her arm, at her bandage, and already see large blotches of red forming on either side of the bite. It is infected - and spreading fast.

I swallow hard, my mouth dry, knowing this is not good. I feel so helpless. I wish there was something I could do, somewhere I could take her. But there's nothing. Champagne and sleeping pills are, pathetically, all I have to offer her.

I reach down and pick Rose up in my arms. Penelope refuses to leave her lap, so I hold the two of them, carry them like a baby. Rose is limp and asleep. Thank God for that. I hope she's not feeling any pain right now.

Bree gets up and walks beside me. I hand Rose to Logan, then jump down and grab Bree, carrying her off the boat. The snow falls harder all around us. I watch Logan carry Rose into the cave and take Bree's hand and follow.

"Grab the other sacks, will you?" I say to Ben. I don't want him to be completely useless, if nothing else than for his own sake.

Ben does as he's told, reaching into the boat and grabbing the packs of food and supplies. I turn with Bree and walk across the soft sand, towards the cave.

"Will Rose be okay?" Bree asks. "Where are we?"

"We're on a small island," I say. "We're going to stay here until the storm passes."

"Until Rose gets better?" she asks.

I swallow hard, not knowing how to answer. I wish I knew myself.

"I'm going to do everything I can for her," I say. "I promise."

We reach the mouth of the cave and I am relieved to see it will be the perfect shelter for us. About 15 feet high and 30 feet deep, with a 10 foot ceiling, it is not so deep where I can't see where it ends. I can see there are no animals - or people - hiding inside. And as I walk in, it already feels several degrees warmer in here - maybe because of the shelter from the wind. I look down and see the dirt floors are dry, too, the snow stopping a few feet from the entrance.

I feel we can build a fire here. We are protected from the wind, and protected from the eyes of anyone who might be watching. It's the perfect place for us all to rest and recover and get our bearings.

Logan places Rose down gently on the earthen floor; he takes off his jacket and delicately rests it beneath her head. Watching him, it surprises me. I had no idea he could be so gentle.

Penelope stands on Rose's chest, on all fours, shaking. She curls up in a ball, lying down and pressing her chin on Rose's chest, looking up at her with sad eyes, refusing to leave her side.

"The infection is bad," Logan says softly as he hurries over to me. "She needs medicine."

"I know," I say. "What do you propose we do?"

He shakes his head grimly. "I don't know," he finally answers.

Ben enters with all the bags of food and supplies, and sets them down inside the cave. Logan turns away from him with a look of disgust, still pissed at him for falling asleep on guard.

At least here, in this cave, we will be safer. There won't be as much of a need to stand guard. There is practically no way anyone could ambush us here without approaching by boat. And that would make noise. The way I see it, if this island is truly deserted, then we have no worries. I turn to Logan.

"Before we settle in," I say, "we need to know that there's no one else on the island, waiting to surprise us. We should also scavenge this place, before the storm gets worse, to see if there are any remnants, any supplies we can find, maybe even some kind of medicine. Maybe there are even some animals here we could hunt - maybe we can find dinner."

"Good idea," he says. "But you shouldn't go alone." He turns and looks at Ben. "I'd go with you, but I can't. I need to stand guard. I'm not about to leave all of our stuff - and our boat - under Ben's watch."

He says it loud enough for Ben to here, but Ben, still out of it, doesn't react.

"You go," Logan adds, "and take Ben with you."

I turn to Ben, expecting him to argue, or be upset. But to my surprise, he doesn't. He looks like a broken man. He lowers his head.

"I'm sorry," he says softly. "I'm really sorry I fell asleep."

I can hear in his voice that he means it. He is so burdened by guilt - guilt for his brother, and now, for what's happened to Rose. It's painful to even look at him, and I'd rather go myself. But Logan's right: I should have company. And having him watch my back is better, I suppose, than nothing.

I turn to Logan.

"This place is not that big. We'll be back within the hour."

"If you're not, I can't go looking for you," he says, "without endangering the others."

"Don't come looking for me," I say. "If I'm not back, you know I'm dead. And in that case, take the girls and the boat and move on."

Logan nods back at me solemnly, and I can see respect in his eyes.

"You'll be back," he says.

*

Ben and I trudge across the barren island, the bow and arrow slung over my shoulder. I've never shot a bow and arrow before, and I'll probably be terrible at it, but I figure if I run across any kind of animal, I'll figure it out. Having it makes me not feel so bad for stopping for Rupert, if for no other reason than to have this weapon.

As we walk in silence, the snow pouring down all around us, the world is incredibly still. I hear only the sound of the snow crunching beneath our feet, and the distant lapping of the waves. The late afternoon sky is a solid gray. We've only been gone for ten minutes, and in that time, the fresh snow has reached my ankles.

I am on guard as we go, one hand on the knife on my belt. We've crossed half the length of the island, and still no sign of anything. This island is like a miniature forest, covered in thick trees, no signs of any structures or any people, or even of any recent activity. I'm feeling increasingly safe, increasingly at ease.

In the distance I spot the far tip of the island, and continue to work my way towards it, weaving in and out of clumps of trees. Once we reach it I'll be much relieved, knowing for sure that there's no one else here and that we can rest easy tonight. Yet at the same time, if I don't find any supplies, anything I can salvage, I'll be disappointed, knowing I'm returning empty-handed to Rose, who is laying there dying.

I scour the trees again, looking for any sign of food, of anything. I stop in my tracks, and Ben stops beside me. I stand there, listening, for several seconds. But all I hear is the deep sound of silence. I close my eyes and listen, and can hear the sound of the snowflakes falling, touching my skin, and beyond that, the very light lapping of the river against the shore. I wait sixty seconds. Still nothing. It is as if we are completely alone in a prehistoric universe.

"Why are we stopped?" Ben asks.

I open my eyes and continue walking. We walk in silence for several more minutes, heading towards the tip of the island.

The more we walk, the more I begin to wonder about Ben. I can't help wondering what exactly happened to him back there, in Manhattan. What happened to his brother. I wonder if I can get him to open up. It sure seems as if he needs to.

"Don't beat yourself up so much," I say to him, breaking the silence. "I mean, your falling asleep back there: it could happen to any of us."

"But it didn't. It happened to me," he shoots back. "It was my fault. It's my fault that Rose is hurt."

"Guilt and blame isn't going to help any of us now," I say. "Nobody's blaming you. I'm not."

He shrugs, looking forlorn, as we continue to walk in silence.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I finally ask, wanting to get it out in the open. "What happened to you in the city? Your brother? It might make you feel better to talk about it."

I watch him as we walk. He looks down, as if thinking, then finally shakes his head no.

I tried. And I respect his privacy. I'm not sure I'd want to talk about it either, if I were in his shoes.

We reach the far end of the island, the trees opening to an open shore, covered in snow. I walk out to the tip and from here I have a sweeping view of the Hudson, in every direction. It is like a vast sea on all sides of us, huge chunks of ice hardening all around, snow falling down on it. It looks surreal, primordial. As the wind whips me in the face, I feel for a moment as if we're the only ones left, castaways in a vast sea.

I scan the shores in every direction, looking for any signs of structures, of motion, movement. But I see none. It is as if the wilderness, without man left to impose upon it, has returned back upon itself.

As I stand there, on the shore, I notice something on the sand, sticking up through the snow. I take a few steps forward, reach down, and pick it up. It is green and glowing, and as I pick it up, I realize it's a bottle - a large, glass bottle that must've washed up on shore.

I scour the rest of the shoreline, and see something else, glistening, bobbing in the water, brushing up against the shore. I hurry over and pick it up. It is an old, aluminum can.

I don't know what to make of these things - it is hardly the treasure chest I hoped to find. But still, I'm sure we can make some use of them, and it's at least something to bring them back.

I take a deep breath and turn around, preparing to head back. This time, I lead us back along the other side of the island, through a different grove of trees, in the hopes of finding something, anything.

We trudge silently back through the woods, and I feel disappointed that I didn't find anything of use, yet also relieved that we have the island to ourselves. I begin to let down my guard as I realize that soon I will be back in the warmth of the cave. My hands and feet are becoming more frozen as we walk, and I bunch them and release, trying to circulate the blood. My legs are weary, and I'll be happy to sit in the cave, and relax by a fire.

This makes me realize that we'll need supplies to start a fire. I happily remember the matches and candles I salvaged from dad's. But I realize we'll also need kindling - dry branches, pine needles, whatever I can find. I also realize we should bring back pine branches to make the ground more comfortable for everyone.

"Look for branches," I say to Ben. "Dry branches. Small ones. Higher off the ground, not covered in snow. We need kindling. Also look for large branches with soft pine needles, to use on the floor."

Ben walks a few feet behind me and doesn't respond, but I know he's heard me because he steps up to a tree, and I hear the cracking of a branch.

I spot a tree myself with a dry branch sticking out from it, and I reach up and snap it off. It's perfect. With an armful of these, we can have a fire going all night.

Just as I'm walking to another tree, suddenly, I hear a twig snap. Ben stands right beside me, so I know he didn't do it. My heart stops. We are being watched.