“I think we can head north to Wilmington. Head east on 295, then take the Atlantic City Expressway.”
“Alright then.”
“When do we leave?”
“I don’t see why we should wait. Why don’t you go rally the troops?”
Zorn was more than glad to help, and Topher watched him as he folded up the map and left. He wished he could share his friend’s enthusiasm, but all he could think about was Robert Burns and Steinbeck.
His name was Scotty, and he was eight. He was only a year old when the Catastrophes happened. He’d never known a home other than a tent, had never been to school, had never passed a day when his stomach wasn’t grumbling. He didn’t know what electricity was, had never seen a television program or gone to the movies. He didn’t know it, but the woman he called his mother wasn’t his mother
