Daryl pulls a scrap of buckskin out of his pack, a little larger than the hole in his jacket, but nothing insurmountable. The bite missed the angel-winged vest on his back, which is what really matters. That thing's invaluable.

"Jacket saved my life," he says. "Gotta take care of it." He stuffs it in the inner pocket of his jacket for later. He's gotta explain to the kid, or she's gonna lose it. She's been through more, he thinks, than she was expecting, first day out.

"I call this bald head hill," he says, "dunno what it's really called, if it had a name. But you can see anything coming from a half-mile off, any direction."

A good place to stop, a good place to regroup. He pulls out the map, unfolds it on the bike's seat. There's a pencil-marked line charting their path; Daryl runs his thumb over it, smudging some of the road ahead. "That bridge's out. Be easier to switch to a horse, now. Gonna go south a little-- here."

He points to a spot on the map. "Issaquah Free Zone. They know me, we've traded. You up for that?"