For the next two weeks after the incident with the Bowman and his daughter, Sawyer did little but rest and tend to his wounds, scraping by on almost no water and even less food. The scar on his shoulder had ruptured, and with the wounds to his forearm, head, and at least two broken ribs, he knew he was lucky to be alive. Nevertheless, he also knew that he was literally beginning to starve, and even more dangerous, his thirst was once again growing increasingly severe with each passing day.

It would not be the first time since the blackout that the boy had known what real thirst felt like, his throat burning, lips cracked, his mind playing tricks on him. On each previous occasion, he had somehow found water before it was too late, but it had often come at the cost of another survivor’s life. The boy took no pleasure in such facts, and he felt no guilt. It was simply the way it was now, and remorse was a luxury he could not afford.

With no rain in sight, the boy widened his search for both food and water, eating insects and robbing birds’ nests, emptying garden hoses and raiding water heaters. He pulled fetid water from toilet tanks and the bottom of swimming pools. He climbed onto roofs and checked the rain gutters, sipping at stagnant puddles, but it was never enough, and with each passing day he was growing more desperate.

One such morning, he awoke to find that his mouth was so dry that he could not swallow, and while he walked through the tall grass with cotton rags tied to his ankles in hopes of collecting a few precious drops of dew, he suddenly heard a quiet voice echoing through the trees. With his heart beginning to race, Sawyer dropped to the ground and peeked his head up above the grass. No more than twenty yards away, a living, breathing human being walked across the open space, the man’s face fully bearded, his long hair matted into thick, brown dreadlocks. He was talking to himself in low whispers and looking down, a heavy walking stick held tightly in one hand, a holstered pistol on his right hip. Most importantly, he had several plastic jugs filled with cloudy water slung over one shoulder, and Sawyer could not help but touch his finger to the trigger on the shotgun, a dark smile crossing his face. The boy whispered under his breath.

“Looks like we have another lucky contestant ready to play.”

To the boy, it was all a deadly game, and although there was a small part of him that wanted to shout out to the Whispering Man, to believe in the goodness and generosity of others, he knew that was not how the game was played. A much larger part of the boy understood that all that really mattered was that the Whispering Man had water, and the boy was absolutely prepared to kill him in order to get it.

Still, despite his first inclination to rush forward and kill the man before he could leave the clearing, something told the boy to wait, and he kept his distance as he decided to follow instead. The Whispering Man kept true to his moniker as he walked a narrow trail that led out of the foothills, quietly talking to himself the entire way. Eventually, he came to a paved road, and from there the boy watched as the man disappeared into the front doors of a long-abandoned elementary school.

The school itself was half-covered in overgrown bushes and ivy, its roof ringed with a crown of screeching crows, but the boy paid the birds no mind. For several minutes, Sawyer waited outside the playground of the school, deciding what he should do, but the dryness in his throat was unbearable, and the boy realized that there was no reason to wait any longer. It was very simple. The boy needed water, or he would die, and he took a deep breath and looked down at the Mossberg. His voice was raspy and weak.

“Here goes nothing.”

With the shotgun in hand, Sawyer sprinted across the playground and pressed his back against the brick wall of the school building. He slid along the wall slowly, ignoring the tiny flakes of brick dust bursting red-orange in the sunlight, his mind focused on the task at hand. He could see that the lock on the entrance nearest to him had been destroyed, and he slowly opened the door and peered into the hall. It was dark and very quiet, and the boy stepped inside and let the door close behind him. For a full minute, he did nothing but remain still in the dark hallway, his ears on, his eyes open. Hearing and seeing nothing, he moved silently down the length of the hallway until it opened into what looked like the main office.

The boy moved slowly through the office, shaking his head in surprise as he looked around the room. Unlike every other building he seemed to come across, the school had completely escaped the fires and the looting that had followed the blackout, and everything was in perfect order. Computers resting on desks, papers neatly stacked in color-coordinated piles, pencils sharpened to a point. It was clear that the teachers and students had planned on returning someday, and the boy frowned in the knowledge that such a future would never come to be.

After another long minute, Sawyer came to the end of the office and listened once again, and this time the sound of muffled whispers came drifting out of the darkness. There was no question that the Whispering Man was close, and Sawyer peered around the corner and saw that there was a door ajar halfway down the next hall. He inched closer. Another murmur. Another muttering. A flicker of candlelight. Sawyer took a deep breath and held it. The Whispering Man was on the other side of the door. The boy knew that it was now or never, and before he could change his mind, Sawyer pushed through the door and leveled the shotgun squarely at the man’s chest. The Whispering Man froze, and Sawyer spoke, his voice calmer than he felt inside.

“Don’t move, or you’re a dead man. Trust me on this one. I’m not bluffing.”

The Whispering Man took a step back and stared blankly at Sawyer, one hand dangling at his side, a burning candle held fast in the other. The boy warned him again, this time louder, every nerve ending buzzing, his heart racing.

“I said don’t move, man. Stay right where you are, or I’ll blow your goddamn head off.”

The Whispering Man simply stared at the boy, his weathered face glowing orange in the candlelight. They sat in utter silence for several seconds before a wicked grin began to spread across the man’s lips. Sawyer saw the man’s free hand begin to slowly move toward the gun on his hip, and the boy shook his head.

“Don’t be stupid. I told you already. I’m not bluffing.”

The man’s long, dirty fingers stopped an inch away from the gun, and he paused for a moment before he spoke, his voice quiet and melodic.

“All right, man. No reason to get excited … the thief he kindly spoke. James Marshall Hendrix. Ever heard of him?”

Sawyer was confused. He took a step forward and squared his shoulders, his voice low, the shotgun held still as he moved into the candlelight.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re saying but move that hand again and you’re a dead man. Last warning.”

The Whispering Man appeared unfazed by Sawyer’s threats, and he licked his lips and continued to smile as he spoke again.

“Hey, man. Take it easy. All we need is love. John Winston Lennon. James Paul McCartney. Ever heard of them?”

Sawyer took a step closer. Adrenaline had flooded his system, and he could feel the blood rushing in his ears, his finger stroking the trigger.

“Look, I don’t know who or what you’re talking about. All I want is your water. Tell me where it is.”

The man continued to smile.

“Water? How about some wine? I’m just here for the show, man. It’s whispered that soon, if we all call the tune, then the piper will lead us to reason. James Patrick Page. Robert Anthony Plant. ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ Ever heard of it?”

Sawyer was close enough that he could smell the man’s unwashed body and rancid breath and see the unhinged look in his eye, and he knew right then that he was not dealing with a sane mind. The boy shook his head, and his green eyes narrowed.

“I won’t ask again. Where’s the water?”

The look in the boy’s eyes was nothing less than frightening, and the Whispering Man’s smile finally faded from his lips. He stared at the boy for a few seconds before he spoke.

“You’re going to kill me no matter what. Isn’t that right, boy?”

Sawyer took one last step forward, the barrel of the shotgun now only an arm’s length away from the Whispering Man’s face. It was the first thing the man had said that made any sense, and the boy saw no reason to lie to him.

“Depends.”

The Whispering Man nodded. For a long moment, there was nothing but silence, but then suddenly the man’s eyes narrowed, and he looked up at the boy.

“So, this is the end? My only friend, the end. Of our elaborate plans, the end. I’ll never look into your eyes … again? James Douglas Morrison. Ever heard of him?”

Before the boy could answer, and without as much as another whisper, the man dropped the candle and went for the gun on his hip. He was surprisingly quick, but the boy was quicker, and with a single pull of the trigger and a bright flash of light, the Whispering Man’s head was nearly blown clean off his body. For several seconds, the boy did nothing but wait in the dark for the smoke to clear and his ears to stop ringing. Finally, he picked up the candle and opened his backpack.

Crouching in the darkness, with his heart still pumping, the boy pulled out a pinch of steel wool, a scrap of paper, and a single 9-volt battery from his pack. Like many of his possessions, his flashlight and matches had both been lost in the tent fire, but the boy still had a few tricks up his sleeve. Among the many skills his father had taught him, creating fire was among the most useful, but unlike the ancient art of rubbing two sticks together, the method Sawyer planned to use was both modern and quick. The boy had learned that simply touching the live terminals of the battery to the steel wool was enough to heat the fine metal filaments to the point of ignition, and Sawyer had only to add the paper to make a flame. Within moments, the wick was relit, and the boy held the candle high and looked around the room. There was only one thought on his mind, and he voiced it out loud.

“Now, if I had lost my mind and reeked like piss, where would I stash my water?”

Sawyer could see that he was in some type of storage room, and that the space was lined with tall, metal cabinets that reflected dimly in the light of the candle. Although he saw no sign of the water bottles the dead man had been carrying, he was still intrigued. He walked down the first row and found that most of the cabinets were locked, but that each one was labeled. He read them out loud as he walked down the row.

“Paper goods. Tape and glue. Writing utensils. Art supplies.”

He turned the corner and continued down the next row.

“P.E. equipment. Gardening. Maintenance. Custodial supplies.”

He turned the corner again.

“Emergency supplies. Emergency supplies. Emergency … supplies?”

Sawyer stared at the row of cabinets as his mind began to race, his heart not far behind. He had been so focused on collecting a few gallons of dirty water from the Whispering Man that he had not really considered what else he might find inside the school. But now, as he stared at the locked cabinets, he finally dared to wonder, and Sawyer set the candle on the ground and pulled the crowbar from his backpack. He slipped the edge between the door, and with a quick snap, the lock was broken. The door swung open, and Sawyer stepped back, his mouth falling wide open.

“Holy crap. I don’t believe it.”

The cabinet was stacked from top to bottom with emergency food rations, the shelves lined with enough freeze-dried meals, canned goods, and powdered milk to feed him for a half-year at least. Sawyer stared ahead as if mesmerized, his face blank as he continued to move down the row. He used the crowbar to pop open the next few cabinets, discovering that each one was stocked with invaluable items: more food, medical supplies, pain meds, tools, search-and-rescue gear—almost everything he could want, except for the one thing he needed most. He tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry, and he shook his head in frustration.

“Really? No goddamn water?”

There was only one cabinet left, but it was already cracked partly open, and Sawyer approached the doors and closed his eyes. He had long ago stopped asking for help from anyone, including God, but at that moment, Sawyer put his hand against the cool metal of the cabinet and looked up as he spoke.

“Please, God, just this once. That’s all I’m asking.”

With no one else to pray to, and nothing else to lose, he grabbed the handle of the cabinet and swung the door open. Sawyer’s heart sank. He had hoped to find shelves full of bottled water, but instead all he could see was stack after stack of unfamiliar white boxes, each one marked with bold blue letters. He reluctantly picked up a box and read the label.

“Aquatabs? What the hell are Aquatabs?”

He picked up the candle and held it close to read the smaller print. He read the first few words, and a sudden chill washed over his body, his voice growing more excited with each word that he read.

“Aquatabs. Water purification tablets. One hundred and sixty-seven milligrams, five hundred-count. Each tablet treats up to six gallons of water. No way.”

The boy tore open the box with his teeth, his heart pumping inside his chest. Inside were several silver foil packages, and he ripped one open, taking one of the white tablets between his fingers and holding it up to his nose. The tablet looked like an aspirin and smelled exactly like chlorine bleach, but to Sawyer it was the scent of life, and hot tears began to irrepressibly roll down his face.

It was at that moment that Sawyer truly realized the magnitude of what he had discovered, and for the first time in well over a year, the boy felt true hope. Not only did he now have enough food to potentially last him for years, if he could find a way to collect enough water, he would never go thirsty again. He could not be sure if it was God that answered his prayer, or simple blind luck, but the boy knew better than to tempt fate, and before he went in search of the Whispering man’s water, he wiped the tears from his eyes, and smiled up at the heavens.

“Thanks. And yeah, I know. I’m going to owe you for this one.”