It was a hundred and sixty miles, or thereabouts from Sac-Town to South Lake Tahoe, going up on what used to be Highway 50. Pre-War, it would have taken two, maybe three hours. Post war, it would take about a week.

Cooper Howard steeled himself as he walked up to the first caravan station and asked, "Got any messages for Roosevelt?"

The woman who was selling water and other necessities turned to look at the rack of mail on the side wall of her shack. "Don't think so…Oh, wait, here it is. Look at the dust on this one. It's been here forever. Here you are." She handed it to him, and he slipped her five caps.

"You don't need to do that, but thanks."

He broke the seal on the envelope, took out a sheet of paper, and read.

'Dear Mr. Howard,

Today, the first day of our journey to Lake Tahoe, Janey poked a cow. Fortunately it was one of the placid pack brahmins, who are perturbed by nothing other than perhaps deathclaws or radscorpions. "My dad says that cowpokes take it as it comes, but…I don't think he ever explained how." she told me, which left me a little at a loss for what to say.

I came up with this as an explanation, "Well, a cowpoke is a cowboy who, um, herds cows from the back of his horse, and he carries a long poking stick to poke cows who are not going in the right direction."

"What do you do when you don't have a horse?" she asked.

"We're walking with the caravan, which takes its pace from the cows. Cows are smarter than we give them credit for. They know to follow the road. If they're carrying too much weight, they'll just stop and wait for someone to lighten their loads. If they're ready to stop, they stop, and you'll see that the caravan leader pays attention to when they need to eat and drink. I'm sure riding would be nicer, but I don't think many horses survived."

"Can we get a horse if we find one that did?"

"Maybe." I said. "But right now we just have to walk." Luckily she has ghoul stamina and walking twenty -five miles in a day is not that much of a problem. I can piggy-back her from time to time if needed.

I am working as a caravan guard without much in the way of pay; Janey's passage is my compensation, although if I turn out to be good at guarding, that can be renegotiated. Besides toiletries and changes of clothes, we have a sleeping bag each, a tarp to serve as a tent, canteens, and I found a very nice sawed off shotgun that someone went to the trouble of engraving with a Dia de Los Muertos theme—a skeletal bride and groom plus a lot of fancy scrollwork They also upgraded it with a few extras that give it more range and stopping power, which is why I've kept it. Plus writing supplies, of course.

By now you probably know that I am a synth. I took my name from the markings on my cryopod. I have no memory of any other name someone might have called me by. I don't remember the faces of my creators, or my friends, if I had them, but the calluses on my hands fit a 10mm very well, and an assault rifle, and a shotgun, and even a laser pistol.

All of those things are very familiar to me and feel very natural, but the first and only person I can remember hugging, in my entire existence, is Janey.

By the way, if you don't think a synth should be looking after your little girl, tough luck. Show up and take over, if you can. It's funny; I know damn well I am dropping meringues into a void by writing to you like this, but still, I do it anyway. Besides, I need someone to vent to who isn't seven years old and almost as fragile as a glass Christmas tree bauble. You are that someone.

In more disturbing news, the number of people who want to buy, rent or steal Janey is truly horrific. Fortunately between my height, my scar, and my unarmed combat training, I am able to deter them. I have not yet had to tell anyone that any body part of theirs that comes into contact with her will wind up down their throats. I expect it will come to that eventually, though.

Tonight it's grilled radscorpion steaks for dinner. There is no lack of food on the trail; stuff volunteers itself for dinner all the time. Sometimes very enthusiastically, too.

Then it's a bedtime story for Janey, and once she's sound asleep, I have mastered the art of the one-finger silent orgasm, for myself. It's rather like Diet Nuka—good but somehow lacking in crucial satisfaction.

Good night and best wishes,

Lana Hunter.'

The next caravan station had another letter.

'Dear Mr. Howard,

Last night the caravan was attacked by night stalkers. I had read about these things before the War in an article on cryptids, and I didn't believe it because—really? Who would believe that someone had somehow come up with a way to cross coyotes, which are not as pretty as foxes, as friendly as dogs, or as noble as wolves, an all around trash canine —with rattlesnakes? I mean, why?

Seriously, who the fuck would do such a thing? What kind of mind would ponder the infinite possibilities and say—'Yeah, I'll cross coyotes with rattlesnakes. That's a good idea.'

Anyhow, as a result, I am now getting paid more, which is good, because we have to buy our own water. I may be rad resistant and Janey positively thrives on radiation, but purified tastes better.

Also, we have a dog now. He is a mixed breed, part pit bull, I think, judging by his muzzles plus beagle and I don't know what else. Grand Pyrenees? Borzoi? Merino sheep? He has a brindle and white coat, dense, somewhat shaggy fur, two heads, and two tails. We are calling him 'Kirby', which is a nickname for Cerberus.

Yes, it would be a better name if he had three heads. Yes, I checked to see if he had any more extra parts. He does not, or at least none that show externally.

He came out of nowhere in the middle of the night as the night stalkers were trying to cozy up to the caravan fires for warmth. Thanks to his unique configuration, he bit one of them in the spine in two places, paralyzing it, and I don't know what all else he did because I was fighting my way out of my sleeping bag and trying to reload my shotgun at the same time.

One of the guards was bitten several times; he is not expected to make it. The station was out of antivenom.

On the bright side, I took some fine pelts/skins off of them. I think snakeskin/coyote fur boots will look particularly fetching. The caravan leader was impressed by my ability to field dress the carcasses so quickly—she collects the blood to make a chem called hydra and the venom to mix with moonshine. Their flesh is very gamey and tough—I would stew it for a long time with wild ginger and garlic to counter that.

Janey woke up during the fuss, and as I was processing the dead stalkers, she quickly found Kirby, who is very friendly. He must have been socialized by someone. The next thing I knew, she had both arms around his neck—or rather, necks, and was getting her face washed on both sides simultaneously. I remember an old expression— happy like a dog with two tails. It suits him.

"Lana, can we keep him?" she asked. "Please?"

"Um…"

"He can be our guard dog and keep guard for us at night!"

"Um…"

"He can bark and growl as much as two dogs, and the monsters would be twice as scared!"

"Um…"

"Plus he can bite twice as much as one dog!"

"That's kind of what I'm afraid of."

"Please? He only has one body, so he would only eat and drink and poop enough for one dog."

"I'm not sure…"

"Please, please, please, pretty pretty please with sugar on top of ice cream?"

"Janey…"

"Please? I don't think anybody else will adopt him because he's different. Please?!"

So, as I said, we now have a dog. Janey wanted to name him Roosevelt, but I argued that the late, great Roosevelt was unique, and so was he, and while she rejected Cerberus, she thought Kirby was cute. Goddamnit, I hope he stays alive. You may argue that I should have said no, but…I couldn't. After all that has happened to her, she deserves unlimited cake and ice cream on her birthday and everything she wants for Christmas for at least three years. The only thing I can do is say yes to the dog.

We have already learned to feed and water each head separately with its own bowl at the same time. Otherwise they both try to eat or drink from the same bowl at the same time and it gets messy.

Yours with the smell of twice the dog breath as a regular dog,

Lana Hunter.'