The Leftovers

woods, saving their money for emergencies. They’d made it all the way from San Francisco to Denver like that, but Christine had gotten tired of it. She never told him so straight out, but he could see that she thought it was beneath her, having to stick out her thumb and pretend to be grateful to people who had no idea what an honor it was to play even a bit part in her story, people who acted like they were the ones doing the favor, picking up a couple of scruffy, barefoot kids in the middle of nowhere and taking them a little farther down the road.
    It was two days before Thanksgiving—Tom had forgotten all about the holiday, which used to be one of his favorites—and the waiting area was choked with travelers and luggage, not to mention a problematic number of cops and soldiers. Christine spotted an empty seat—it was a single in the middle of a row—and rushed to grab it. Trying to control his irritation, Tom lumbered after her, weighed down by his overstuffed backpack, reminding himself that her needs came first.
    Shrugging off the ungainly pack—it contained her stuff as well as his own, plus the tent and sleeping bag—he sat down at her feet like a loyal dog positioning himself at an angle to avoid eye contact with the pack of soldiers sitting directly across the way, all of them dressed in desert fatigues and combat boots. Two were napping and one was texting, but the fourth—a skinny, redheaded dude with rabbity, pink-rimmed eyes—was studying Christine with an intensity that made him nervous.
    This was exactly what he’d been worried about. She was so cute that you couldn’t not check her out, not even when she was dressed in these filthy hippie rags and a hand-knitted stocking cap, with a big blue-and-orange bullseye painted in the middle of her forehead. More than a month had passed since Mr. Gilchrest’s arrest, and the story had pretty much faded away, but he figured it was just a matter of time before some busybody noticed Christine and connected her with the fugitive brides.
    The soldier’s gaze shifted to Tom. He tried to ignore it, but the guy apparently had all the time in the world and nothing to do but stare. Eventually, Tom had no choice but to turn and meet his eyes.
    “Yo, Pigpen,” the soldier said. The stitching on his shirt pocket identified him as HENNING. “That your girlfriend?”
    “Just a friend,” Tom replied, a bit grudgingly.
    “What’s her name?”
    “Jennifer.”
    “Where you heading?”
    “Omaha.”
    “Hey, me too.” Henning seemed pleased by the coincidence. “Got a two-week leave. Gonna spend Thanksgiving with the family.”
    Tom gave a minimal nod, trying to let the guy know he wasn’t in the mood for a big get-to-know-you chat, but Henning didn’t take the hint.
    “So what brings you to Nebraska?”
    “Just passing through.”
    “Where you coming from?”
    “Phoenix,” he lied.
    “Hot as a bitch down there, huh?”
    Tom looked away, trying to signal that the conversation was over. Henning pretended not to notice.
    “So what is it with you guys and showers? You allergic to water or something?”
    Oh, God, Tom thought. Not this again. When they’d decided to disguise themselves as Barefoot People, he figured they’d get teased a lot about drugs and free love, but he had no idea how much time he was going to have to devote to the subject of personal hygiene.
    “We value cleanliness,” Tom told him. “We’re just not obsessed with it.”
    “I can see that.” Henning glanced at Tom’s grimy feet as if they were Exhibit A. “I’m curious. What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without a shower?”
    If Tom had any interest in being honest, he would have said seven days, which was the extent of his current streak. In the interest of verisimilitude, he and Christine had stopped showering three days before leaving San Francisco, and during their time on the road they’d only had access to public restrooms.
    “None of your business.”
    “All right, fine.” Henning seemed to be enjoying himself. “Just answer me this. When was the last time you changed your underwear?”
    The soldier next to Henning, a bald black guy who’d been texting like his life depended on it, looked up from his phone and chortled. Tom remained silent. There was no dignified way to answer a question about your underwear.
    “Come on, Pigpen. Just give me a ballpark figure. Extra points if it’s less than a week.”
    “Maybe he’s a commando,” the black guy