The street, if you could call it that, was mostly just a large expanse of empty yellow dirt. It was everywhere, the dirt. Coating the windows and the people and the trash that seemed to pile up into higher and higher mountains as I walked, taking the place of the houses that had once almost certainly contained it all. But it must not have been trash then. It must have been people's things.

From the map Tina had shown me, Adam's old house was over in a part of town where Robbie's childhood friend Scott lived. I hadn't been there very many times, as Scott hated me and I was never invited over. But I had been with Mom in the car once or twice when we picked Robbie up, and I knew how to get there. It was about a quarter mile from where our high school was—or, I guess, where our high school had been, since I had no idea if the school was still there or not.

And if it turned out the school wasn't there, then what about the portals beneath it?

How would Adam and I get back home...assuming I could find Adam at all?

Finally, I reached the neighborhood. Several houses still stood, though they were in varying states of disrepair. The ones that remained in decent shape had the highest fences, sometimes made of jury-rigged pieces of other structures, like a mismatched army defending a wartime fort.

My mind couldn't help but search desperately for some clue as to what had happened here. Climate change clearly had something to do with it, as nothing green could live in all this heat and pollution. And the thicker the dust had become, the more it had stifled plant life; the more the plant life had depleted, the more the land had turned arid and produced more dirt.

It was something scientists had been predicting for decades, but it wasn't supposed to happen this quickly. Only forty years had passed.

We were supposed to have more time than this.

That is to say, I thought we'd have more time.

My feet stopped walking, and it was like they knew something my brain didn't. There was a word in stenciled letters on the gate of the house before me. I couldn't read it through the caked-on dirt, of course, and had to use my shirt to wipe it down before I could be sure it was right.

When I saw it at last, I wanted to cry with relief: "Martel."

I looked around for any bell to ring, but instead I noticed a cord hanging from a hole in the wooden fence. I pulled on it, and what sounded like a cowbell clanged on the other side. My hands clenched back towards my sides, shocked by how loud it had it been, echoing against the cavernous spaces left behind by the missing houses.

Nothing happened. I raised my hand, willing myself to pull the string again as gently as possible.

But I didn't get a chance. Because the gate opened then, and the barrel of a gun was in my face.

And on the far end of the gun were a pair of green eyes that looked painfully similar to the ones I had dreamed about every night for a year. But these eyes weren't the same; they were cold and creased with age, and resting in a face more chiseled with time and anger than the one that I loved.

"Jonah Martel?" I asked.

"What do you want?" He didn't lower the gun.

"I'm looking for your brother."

The gun lowered then, and I could see the face more clearly. But nothing about its wrenched features softened a bit as he used the gun like a matador's red cape to wave me past the gate and onto the property.

**

There were small signs of life in Adam's childhood kitchen—the life that had existed here many years before. A cabinet with some ancient blue china plates and matching cups, all peeping out from beneath a mountain of dust that had settled on them through a small hole in the glass door. An embroidery hoop with the hand-stitched words "Home is Forever" in red cursive letters. A large candelabra high up on a shelf that, upon further inspection, looked like a menorah that Jewish people might light at Hannukah; yet another fact about Adam I had never had a chance to learn.

"Sorry about this," Jonah muttered, waving the gun one last time for emphasis before dropping it on the counter next to some soiled coffee cups. "Sometimes people scavenge here."

"It's okay," I said, but I was careful not to move too suddenly away from the door. The gun hadn't scared me as much as it probably should have. After all, this was the third time in Down World a man had pulled a gun on me—first George in his lake cabin, then Alexei in his house. The first man had done so out of fear and the second out of cruelty. Both times, their eyes had revealed whether or not they intended to use it.

"Let me guess," Jonah continued, reaching for one of those dirty mugs now and wiping it clean on a rag that looked dirtier than the cup before filling it with water from a large plastic jug. "Caleb owes you money?"

"No, sir..."

"Well, I don't keep cash in the house, for obvious reasons."

"It's not that, sir. I'm not looking for Caleb."

He eyed me then suspiciously, letting the mug fall an inch so that a drop of water splashed out and plopped against the well-worn tile floor.

"That son of his get you in trouble, girl? 'Cause I can't help you there, either."

"Sir—Jonah," I cleared my throat, my eyes flitting of their own volition to that jug of water. The heat and the dust in this place were oppressive. It was hard to think of anything else for long except being thirsty. I wiped a bead of sweat off my forehead, and my fingers were gritty and yellow when I pulled them away. "I'm looking for your other brother. Adam."

Jonah's face hardened even farther upon hearing the name. He didn't say anything for a moment, but a muscle twitched in his firm jaw. He put the coffee mug down, turning away from me and looking out through the film of dirt on the window towards the dead front yard.

"Get out of here."

"Sir?"

"Get out of my house. What is wrong with you?"

"Please," I began, and I could hear the emotion creeping its way into my voice before I even became conscious of the clench in my gut. There was only one reason a person would react that way to hearing a name.

After all, it was the way I used to react when people mentioned Robbie.

"Please, sir, tell me what happened."

"I said get out of my house!" He fumbled with the things on the counter then, his hand perilously close to that handgun he had left sitting next to a jar of sugar.

I started to back away, making it only a couple steps before I flattened against the door. I was reaching for the handle when another man entered the room.

"Dad, don't," the man said, and I realized it was because Jonah was reaching for the gun. His son—a beanpole of a man, about thirty years old with thinning blond hair—came into the room and rested a peaceful hand on his father's back. It worked instantly to calm the old man, who seemed to forget what he was doing and let his hands drop.

But then the old man turned back to me, anger in his eyes. "You're one of them boltheads, aren't you?"

"Sir, I—"

"You're trying to hide it under all that hair, but I can see it peeking out. The little light thing." He turned to his son for encouragement, but the younger man refused to meet his eyes. He did glance at me for a second, though, a flash of tension appearing and then disappearing across his face. "You even look like that lady. You see that, son?"

"I see it, Dad."

"They're so obsessed with that scientist woman, they're engineering their kids to look like her now."

My shaking hand rubbed furiously over the glass bead sticking out of my temple, and I wished more than ever that I could simply rub it away. I opened my mouth to speak, but my lip was trembling too much to form any words.

"And she asks about Adam."

"I didn't know..." I began, the words high and squeaky.

"You want to know what happened to my brother? You could ask that scientist lady if her psycho husband hadn't offed her. Because it's all her fault."

"Dad, go lie down," the younger man commanded, calm and stoic. Yet a sadness had taken over his eyes, and he seemed to be making a great effort not to look at me.

The old man did as his son had asked, but not before pausing briefly to whisper to him, "Get her out of here."

"I will, Dad."

When the old man had walked away and the last of his footsteps could no longer be heard down the hall, the son finally turned to face me. He had the same small, intense brown eyes as Tina's stepmom, and I realized he must have been the son Tina had mentioned, the reason for all those old TV shows on the phone. I braced myself for another forceful exit, but instead, shockingly, his jaw softened.

"Sorry about that. I know it's not your fault. Why do you want to know about Adam?"

I wracked my brain to think of a reason, and decided quickly that something close to the truth was probably my best bet. "My mother was a good friend of his. She's always wondered what happened to him."

He nodded, his eyes finally landing on me.

"Actually," I continued, finding my voice. "She was in love with him. When they were younger. They...they found each other at a hard time. And I think she wanted to spend her whole life with him. I don't..." I choked back the rip in my throat. "I don't know what happened, but...maybe you could help me. Will you please..."

"Okay," he said.

"Please help me," I finished.

He then turned more completely towards me, sighing before he spoke. "Uncle Adam died in the war."

The clench in my stomach shot upwards toward my throat, but I swallowed it back down. "What war?"

He looked at me like I was crazy then, or maybe just like he pitied someone who had lived such a sheltered life that she could possibly ask such an ignorant question. "The Last War."

I nodded, trying to remain calm. But my trembling body couldn't take any more of it, and the tears came on hard, streaming down my face and carrying away all the rivulets of dirt. They rained down onto my cheeks until I wiped them away.

"Come on," the man said, closing his eyes momentarily as he made his decision. "I'll show you."

***

Only one chapter left in part 2 (out of 3), guys. See you next Friday. XO, Rebecca