Carl went up to a pile of fabric, wood, and muck and wrenched out from it a rusted crab pot. Farther down the beach he found a rod and reel. He twirled the spinner and it whirled. There was no line. He propped it across his shoulder and kept walking.

They were caught off guard by the sun’s descent. So much of its arc happened behind the shrouded forest. They set up a rough camp near the riverbank. A quick meal of jerky, and then Carl and Dr. Harold tossed the crab pot in. The thick, salty air made them drowsy and they were asleep before the sky properly darkened.

In the morning they were roused by the high tide stinging their legs. A large moon was falling below the frothy horizon at the river’s mouth. A differently mooned night and they might have stayed dry. At first they assumed the sting was from the coldness of the water. But then they discovered they were covered in a rash wherever the water had licked them.

Four were sent with the Cast Iron to find fresh water to wash with. They came back with cool moss water and sheets of sphagnum, and they all wiped down with them. The sting eased.

Carl pulled the crab pot up, careful not to touch the wet line with a bare hand. There was only mud, a couple red-shelled clams, and a yellowed crab with one eye and far too many appendages.

The Invisible River was a poisoned river. A clean version of the river would have provided all the food they could ever want. In another era they might have stayed along a river like this as long as they could. They would have fished for their food. Found mushrooms, or what else there must be to forage. They would have set up buildings and smokehouses for salmon and trout and deer and elk and bear. They would have started a new civilization on a river like this if it were clean and thriving. The Rangers would have had to force them to leave.

But the Poisoned River was a ghost river now, barren of most species, only mutated muck eaters at the bottom. They had barely noticed that above the sound of the raging water no birds called, no peepers croaked in the mud. The animals stuck to the dark protective woods, and they couldn’t be blamed for steering clear of this poisoned shore. The Community did find feral grapes and hard beach plums that colored their shits with their stout purple skins. But otherwise, it was a dead landscape.

“Can we turn around yet?” Debra said.

“No, we haven’t reached Post,” Glen said.

“Do you really think there is a Post around here? Nothing else has been right on the map,” Dr. Harold said, always supporting Debra.

“I think they are trying to kill us,” said Val. “If it weren’t for that fence, we definitely would have tried to cross. We’d be burning alive in this poison water.”

“Which is why they put a fence there to stop us,” said Glen. “Fences aren’t meant to entice.”

“I’m always enticed by a fence,” Val said. “It’s a challenge.” When Carl nodded approval, she smiled.

“Well, Val, generally fences are a sign to stay away,” Glen said. “It’s not a challenge. A fence is a rule.”

Carl snorted. “If you saw a No Trespassing sign, what would you do?” he asked.

“I would not trespass,” said Glen.

“That’s crazy.”

“Would you?”

“Of course! Land isn’t made to be owned.”

“But all land is owned.”

“Not this.”

“Yes, it is, it’s owned by the Administration. You waited until you had permission before you entered this land. You didn’t just sneak onto it.”

Val said, “I hate this conversation. It’s making our life seem so boring.”

“It is boring,” Glen said. “Isn’t that kind of the point?”

Carl’s jaw dropped.

Agnes did not care about this conversation. Who cared about why or how? Who cared about would or wouldn’t? She never understood why the adults were always discussing these words. Should and shouldn’t. Can and can’t. “Is and do,” she muttered to herself. That’s all that mattered. Is and do. Being and doing. Right now, and a little time from now.

Agnes walked along the tree line, away from the tidal zone and the Poisoned River. The ruts were gone again. She tried to picture a time when this river had been clean, inviting to shorebirds and osprey. She might look out and see fish so plentiful the water churned, their tails splashing her from the shore. It was from a book one of them had brought. About pioneers of a different sort who, upon landing on a shore, were first greeted by hordes of curious animals. That water roiled with life. And the land crawled with four-footed walkers, and yet there was enough for everyone. It was one of the tales they told around the fire at night. One that she found hardest to imagine and believe. She tried to believe in them all. That is something her mother told her to do.

Her mother had been the best storyteller in the Community, though she told stories least often. But she knew the magic of the unexpected, whether in story form or in real life. Agnes remembered her last birthday in the City, waking in the twilight, the banished sun peeking around edges of the drawn curtains. With groggy eyes she thought she saw something glowing by her bedside. A small plain white box. Inside it, a small pendant set snug in cotton. It was an orange-and-brown butterfly edged in yellow gold. Butterflies were gone, but she knew what it was from the old books her mother had shown her. It was the most elegant thing she’d ever seen, but what bewitched her was how it had appeared as if by magic. She knew, somewhere in her heart, that her mother must have snuck in during the deepest night so it would be there when Agnes woke up. But when she came out of her room, she didn’t thank her mother and her mother didn’t mention it. Didn’t make note of it glinting around her neck. Her mother joined her silently in this game she’d started, where a piece of jewelry was so special, so important, it couldn’t even be seen. Just felt there at her throat. For as long as she had it, Agnes pretended it was a gift from some other realm. From a place where everything was lovely and charmed and delicate. And her mother let her.

When she lost the butterfly necklace in the Wilderness, it was the Community’s first fine.

*

Walking along the shore, in and out of the headlands, they came upon several old recliners positioned in a circle around something that must have been a firepit. There was an indentation, some stones thrown about, but no fire had burned here for a long time. Tin cans were strewn around the circle and the children picked them up, turning them over in their hands, unaware of the rust or dangerous edges. The adults had forgotten about these things too until Brother cut his finger and the children were forced to drop their new toys. How long had these been here, and who had left them? Derelict Rangers? Had this corner been forgotten in the re-wilding? Escaped workers from the Woodlots? There couldn’t possibly be escapees from across the Poisoned River. They wouldn’t make it, would they?

“Sometimes it feels as though civilization is half a day’s walk away,” Debra said, eyeing the fence. The adults nodded solemnly. It was the kind of feeling Agnes knew her mother had. Why are we even here? What is the point? She never heard the children ask these questions. The answers were everywhere.

Beyond the circle of chairs, they found an old baby seat, one that a parent might have swung in the crook of the elbow or hooked into a car when cars had been useful. “A car seat,” remembered Debra. Tied to its handle was a note, marker on plastic-covered note card, weathered but readable: Her name is Rachel. Please take care of her. There was no Rachel anymore. Their shoulders hunched again, weighed down by the greater world.

Agnes’s hackles rose, and she lifted her eyes, nose, and circled, scouting what she could. The others dumbly circled around this empty omen as though wondering just where they were heading and what was waiting for them.

“Well, ahoy there!” a voice called.

Above them, at the zenith of the next headland, straddling the ruts, stood a man in a navy-blue tracksuit, a safari vest weighted with items like binoculars, knives, a bird book, and a poncho hanging out of its pockets, and a rifle held up, cocked and ready. He lifted a hand in a wave, his eye still trained through the scope.

“The gang’s all here,” he said. “We’re just over this hump.”

The Community’s hands were on their knives, ready. They hadn’t even had a moment to gasp.

The man lowered his rifle from his eye, his eyebrows raised. “They told us you’d be meeting us here?”

The Community slowly unclenched their hands and turned their heads to Carl, whose mouth was disappearing into a thin razor-sharp line.

“We’re the new recruits you’re picking up?” the man said.

They blinked.

Juan muttered, “Pickup location.” He shook his head. “Pickup location?” He fumed. “Pick up meant pick up people?”

“I thought they were giving us some fucking rice,” said Debra.

“They definitely could have been more specific,” said Glen.

“Fuck,” said Val.

Agnes looked at Carl, who was surprisingly quiet. He stared up at the man and stroked his chin.