The Leftovers

themselves, reaching for slice after slice, taking way more than their fair share. Laurie didn’t mind. She wasn’t very hungry, and Meg had only taken a single bite of the food she claimed to have been dreaming about for months. Laurie smiled sadly at the ravenous men across the table. They were innocents, just like she and Meg had been when they’d arrived at Outpost 17, blissfully unaware of the beautiful tradition they’d been chosen to uphold.
    It’s okay, she thought. Enjoy it while you can.
    *   *   *
    CHRISTINE HURRIED off to the restroom, leaving Tom to prepare the bottle in the front seat, heating the water with a handy device that connected to the cigarette lighter. When it was the right temperature, he added a single-serving packet of formula, shaking vigorously to make sure it was all mixed in. He performed these actions in a state of exquisite suspense, checking the mirror every few seconds to make sure the baby was still asleep. He knew from experience how hard it was to properly assemble a bottle when she was squealing with hunger. Something always went wrong: The plastic bag wouldn’t open, or it would slip out of the holder, or it had a tiny pinhole in the bottom, or you didn’t screw the top on right, or whatever. It was amazing how many ways there were to botch such a simple operation.
    This time, though, the gods were on his side. He got the bottle all set, extricated the baby from her bucket without waking her, and carried her to the picnic area, where they found a shady bench. The baby didn’t open her eyes until the nipple touched her lips. She snuffled around a bit and then pounced, latching on hard, sucking with a ferocity that made Tom laugh out loud, the bottle jerking rhythmically in his hand. It reminded him of fishing, the jolt when you got a bite, the shock of being connected to another life.
    “You’re a hungry little thing, aren’t you?”
    The baby gazed up at him as she gulped and snorted—not adoringly, Tom thought, or even gratefully, but at least tolerantly, like she was thinking, I have no idea who you are, but I guess I’m okay with that.
    “I know I’m not your mother,” he whispered. “But I’m doing the best I can.”
    Christine was gone for a long time, long enough for the baby to drain the bottle and Tom to start worrying. He hoisted the baby upright, patting her back until she released a cute little burp that seemed a lot less cute when he felt a familiar, disheartening dampness on his shoulder. He hated the sour smell of spit-up, the way it clung to your clothes and lingered in your nostrils, a far more insidious substance than baby poop.
    The baby started fussing, so Tom took her for a walk around the grounds, which she seemed to appreciate. The rest area was a modest one—no restaurant or gas station, just a bland one-story building with bathrooms, vending machines, and shelves of informational brochures about the wonders of Connecticut—but it took up a surprising amount of space. There was a six-table picnic area, a dog walk, and a secondary parking lot for trucks and RVs.
    Wandering past the big vehicles, Tom was hailed by a group of Barefoot People in a maroon Dodge Caravan with Michigan plates. There were five of them, three guys and two girls, all of them college-aged. While the girls were cooing at the baby—they seemed especially charmed by the dime-sized bullseye on her forehead—a red-haired guy with a knotted bandana head rag asked Tom if he was heading to Mount Pocono for the monthlong solstice festival.
    “It’ll be raucous,” he said, grimacing as he raised one arm and scratched diligently at his rib cage. “Way better than last year.”
    “I don’t know,” Tom said with a shrug. “Kinda hard with a baby.”
    One of the girls looked up. She had a hot body, a bad complexion, and one missing tooth.
    “I’ll babysit,” she said. “I don’t mind.”
    “Yeah, right,” laughed one of her friends, a handsome dude with an unpleasant expression. “In between gang bangs.”
    “Fuck you,” she told him. “I’m really good with kids.”
    “Except when she’s tripping,” the third guy chimed in. He was big and beefy, a football player going to seed. “And she’s tripping all the time.”
    “You guys are assholes,” the second girl observed.
    *   *   *
    CHRISTINE WAS waiting by the BMW, watching him with a pensive expression, her black hair gleaming in the afternoon sun.
    “Where were you?” she asked.