Five years after the grid died, Brandon Walker has kept a hundred and eighty-one people alive on a Nebraska ranch. Then a dying man hands him a page on a bridge.
It's a census of the Walker place. Every name. Every age. Dated nine days before anyone there knew the enemy existed.
At the end of each line is a column nobody can read. One means retained. Two means transferred. And the letter X means no food, no transport, and no plan of any kind.
Thirty-one people on that list have an X. One of them is a twelve-year-old boy. One of them is Brandon.
Towns are emptying without a shot fired. Folding tables, ten polite questions, a case of oranges, and by nightfall two hundred people are gone east in trucks. Nobody fights. That's the design.
Somebody on Brandon's own place is signaling in the dark. And two hundred miles west, a coal plant has been running since the first winter, feeding something in Colorado that nobody can name.