Did you miss Memory Boy, the first book about Miles and Sarah?
Here’s a peek at what happened before The Survivors!
IT WAS THE PERFECT TIME for leaving. Weather conditions were finally right: a steady breeze blew from the south, plus there was just enough moonlight to see by.
July 3, 2008.
This would be the date our family would always remember, assuming, of course, that we lived to tell about it.
“Hurry up. The wind won’t last forever,” I said. Three shadowy figures—my sister, Sarah, and my parents—fumbled with their luggage. With me, we were the Newell family. We lived in west suburban Minneapolis—for a few more minutes, at least.
“Shut up, Miles,” Sarah muttered. She was twelve going on thirteen, and her carry-on bag overflowed with last-minute additions. I couldn’t complain; I had my own private stuff, including a small sealed jar that would be hard to explain to my family. So I didn’t try. Right now one of Sarah’s stupid paperbacks dropped with a thud onto the sidewalk. I sighed and went to help her.
“I’m not leaving,” Sarah said, jerking away from me. “Everybody’s going to die anyway, so why can’t we die in our own house?” She plopped down onto the lawn. Pale pumice puffed up around her and hung in the air like a ghostly double. That was the weird thing about the volcanic ash; it had been falling softly, softly falling, for over two years now—and sometimes it was almost beautiful. Tonight the rock flour suspended in the air made a wide, furry-white halo around the moon. Its giant, raccoon-like eyeball stared down and made the whole neighborhood look X-rayed.
“Nobody’s going to die,” I said. “Though if we stay in the city, we might,” I muttered to myself.
“How do you know?” Sarah said. She sat there stubbornly, clutching her elbows.
“Actually, I don’t. Which is why we’re leaving.”
Sarah swore at me. Anything logical really pissed her off these days.
“Arthur!” my mother said sharply to my father. “Help out anytime.”
My father coughed briefly and stepped forward. “Think of it this way, Sarah. We’re heading to the lake,” he said, his voice muffled under his dust mask. “We’ll get to our cabin, kick back, ride this out. Swiss Family Robinson all the way.” He manufactured a short laugh that fell about fifty yards short of sincere. Sometimes I worried more about him than my sister and mother; they at least knew how to put wood in a fireplace. My father was a real city guy, a musician, a jazz drummer.
My mother added, “We all agreed, remember? As Miles said, up at Birch Bay we’ll have more control of things, like heat, food, and water. When things improve—when the ash stops falling, and when there’s gasoline, and when the food stores are full again—we’ll come back home.” Something, maybe the dust, caught briefly in her throat.