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I don't know what to think about the afterlife. But I'll never accept pretty notions like heaven and a righteous hell.

Mom's marker is a square block cut from the local limestone, her name and the important dates chiseled into the flattest face, along with the usual scripture. My mom believed in God and loved Christ, and she took lessons from that strange old book. It's those lessons that save my life, and that's why I can stand on this frozen ground today. Mom always acted on what she believed, and since the heart is a fool, my poor father and his heart usually went along with her crazy decisions.

I never could make sense of their love. But if I were a grateful son, I would kneel down on this frozen sacred ground and clasp my hands together, thanking my mother and God for this opportunity to be alive, seeing the world unfold into new, unexpected shapes.

Except that I'm not a grateful son.

My little ritual - this chore that I perform whenever visiting town - I do for the sake of my wife. Years ago, most of the local people treated Lola and her family unfairly. One bitter old woman was at the center of those bad feelings and petty slights. Even as a boy, I realized that my future wife didn't deserve to be shunned. But that was what happened. My mother was responsible, and the pain has lingered long past her death. And that's why I usually have one tall beer at the bar and then walk to the cemetery, taking a long look around to make sure that I'm alone, then yanking down my pants and investing a few moments pissing on that crude tombstone.

It feels better than prayer. And that's what I'm doing today - without beer to help, but managing just fine - and that's what I'm finishing up when something unexpected happens. First comes the sound of an engine working and only then I catch a glimpse of a remarkable apparition on the highway east of town.

What kind of truck is that?

I pull up my trousers and fasten the buttons. I'm tying my belt when the mystery machine enters the town square. A long aluminum box rides high on fat tires and the windshield looks like the window on a house and smaller windows are fixed to at least one long side, and loyally following the vehicle is a big trailer carrying what looks like an auxiliary fuel tank and other supplies.

From some deep unexpected corner of my head, a memory finds me. No, the vehicle isn't quite the same. It has been updated to meet this world's bad roads and fuel shortages. But out of the fog between my ears comes an impossible answer:

An RV.

Which stands for what?

I can't remember. I probably never knew. But this is the best kind of marvel, like something from a dream, and that foolish part of me is beating fast now, making me feel like a happy little kid.

I was seven and glad to be traveling the world, eating canned food and picking out new clothes as soon as my almost-new clothes were dirty. It seemed like a natural life, and I didn't complain. Then dad heard chatter on the short wave radio. People of Faith were talking about a town left empty and clean, and life was going to be easy again. But weren't things pretty sweet already? The dead didn't stink much anymore. I liked wandering and the everyday rituals, like helping my father explore empty houses, hunting for ammunition and tools and keys to cars that still ran. The scale of the disaster was enormous. But then again, everything's enormous to a young boy. And nothing is more natural than death. For all I knew, people had lived this way since the Creation: prosperity always made our species too proud, and then God would send a flood or worse, slaughtering only the evil people in the world.

That's what my mother's prayers said. Every night and every morning, and with each meal of scavenged food, she would thank the Good Lord for the treasure left behind by the vanquished Unbelievers.

I prayed and dad prayed, but not like mom. She was the one who decided we should drive to Salvation. Dad wasn't as hopeful,