“In the blast.”
“How long ago?”
“Six years.”
Hendricks slowed down. “You’ve been alone six years?”
“No. There were other people for awhile. They went away.”
“And you’ve been alone since?”
“Yes.”
Hendricks glanced down. The boy was strange, saying very little. Withdrawn. But that was the way they were, the children who had survived. Quiet. Stoic. A strange kind of fatalism gripped them. Nothing came as a surprise. They accepted anything that came along. There was no longer any normal, any natural course of things, moral or physical, for them to expect. Custom, habit, all the determining forces of learning were gone; only brute experience remained.
“Am I walking too fast?” Hendricks said.
“No.”