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The lights went out in March. By August, Max Jorgensen and Juliette Blanchard are the only two people left alive out of fourteen.
The Night Watchers burned everything else.
They run. Fourteen miles of blowdown, seventeen creek crossings, five days on two handfuls of rice. Max carries her the last eleven hundred feet up a burned mountain because she has stopped walking and he will not put her down.
And then, through the trees, a cabin. A woodpile. Smoke standing straight up out of the chimney.
A light in the window.
There is an old couple inside who take them in and feed them and give them a bed and teach them how to survive a winter.
There is also a fence post at the edge of the clearing with an open eye carved into it, freshly cut, the sap still bright in the wound.
The Night Watchers have already been here.
They counted the woodpile. They counted the chickens. They wrote it down.
And they are coming back.
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