The Leftovers

speculated.
    “Purity comes from within,” Tom explained, echoing one of the Barefoot People’s favorite slogans. “What’s on the outside is irrelevant.”
    “Not to me,” Henning shot back. “I’m the one that has to sit on the bus with you for twelve hours.”
    Tom didn’t say so, but he knew the guy had a point. For the past couple of days, he’d been uncomfortably aware of the funk he and Christine were giving off in close quarters. Every driver who picked them up immediately cracked the windows, no matter how cold or rainy it was. Verisimilitude was no longer an issue.
    “I’m sorry if we offend you,” he said, a bit stiffly.
    “Don’t get mad, Pigpen. I’m just fucking with you.”
    Before Tom could reply, Christine kicked him softly in the back. He ignored the summons, wanting to keep her out of the conversation. But then she kicked him again, hard enough that he had no choice but to turn around.
    “I’m starving,” she said, jutting her chin in the direction of the Food Court. “Could you get me a slice of pizza?”
    *   *   *
    HENNING WASN’T the only one who resented their presence on the overnight bus. The driver didn’t look too happy as he took their tickets; several passengers muttered disparaging comments as they made their way down the aisle toward the empty seats in back.
    It was almost enough to make Tom feel sorry for the Barefoot People. Until he’d started impersonating one, he had no idea how unpopular they were with the general public, at least once you got out of San Francisco. But whenever he found himself wishing that he and Christine had chosen a more respectable cover—something that would have allowed them to blend in a little better and not attract so much free-floating hostility—he reminded himself that the weaknesses of this particular disguise were also its strengths. The more conspicuous you were, the easier it was for people to take you at face value—they just wrote you off as a couple of harmless dirtbags and left it at that.
    Christine slid into the window seat in the very last row, unpleasantly close to the restroom. She seemed puzzled when Tom sat down across the aisle.
    “What’s the matter?” She patted the empty seat beside her. “Aren’t you gonna keep me company?”
    “I figured we could spread out. Be easier to get some rest.”
    “Oh.” She looked disappointed. “I guess you don’t love me anymore.”
    “I forgot to tell you,” he said. “I met someone else. On the Internet.”
    “Is she pretty?”
    “All I know is, she’s clean Russian girl, looking for rich American stud.”
    “Good thing it’s not the other way around.”
    “Very funny.”
    They’d been teasing each other like this for the past couple of weeks, pretending to be boyfriend and girlfriend, hoping to joke away some of the sexual tension that always seemed to be hanging in the air, but only making it thicker in the process. It had been distracting enough back at the house, but it had become excruciating now that they were on the road, twenty-four-hour-a-day companions, eating together, sleeping side by side in the little pup tent. He’d heard Christine snoring and seen her squatting in the woods, and had held her hair away from her face when she threw up in the morning, but all that familiarity hadn’t managed to breed even the smallest sliver of contempt. He still got flustered every time she brushed up against him, and knew it would be pure insomniac torture, sitting right next to her for twelve hours, his eyes wide open, her knee just inches from his own.
    Despite a multitude of opportunities, Tom still hadn’t made any moves on her—hadn’t tried to kiss her in the tent, or even hold her hand—and he didn’t intend to. She was sixteen years old and four months pregnant—her belly had just begun to bulge—and the last thing she needed to deal with were sexual advances from her traveling companion, the guy who was supposed to be watching out for her. His mission was simple: All he had to do was deliver her safely to Boston, where some sympathetic friends of Mr. Gilchrest had offered to take her in and provide her with food and shelter and medical care until the baby arrived, the one who was supposed to save the world.
    Tom didn’t believe all this nonsense about the Miracle Child, of course. He didn’t even understand what it would mean to save the world. Would the people who’d disappeared come back? Or would things just get better for