—it was Sarah's writing. He turned the check over, shining the light on it, and read: My Dearest John, You were right. I don't know if you're still alive. I'm telling myself and the children that you survived. We are fine. The chickens died overnight, but I don't think it was radiation. No one is sick. The Jenkins family came by and we're heading toward the mountains with them. You can find us from the retreat. I'm telling myself that you will find us. Maybe it will take a long time, but we won't give up hope. Don't you. The children love you.
Annie has been good. Michael is more of a little man than we'd thought. Some thieves came by and Michael saved my life. We weren't hurt. Hurry. Always, Sarah.
At the bottom, the letters larger, scrawled quickly, Rourke thought, was written:
I love you, John.
Rourke leaned back against the barn door, rereading the note, and when he was through, rereading it again.
He didn't look at his watch, but when finally he looked up, the moon seemed higher.
He folded the half-voided check carefully and placed it in his wallet, looked up at the stars, and his voice, barely a whisper, said, 'Thank you.'
John Rourke slung the CAR-15 under his right shoulder and started walking, away from the barn, past the gutted house and into the woods. He stopped and looked back once, lighting a cigar, then turned and didn't look back again.
The End
