The sun is just setting when I hit Albuquerque’s limits. I get lost twice trying to find the doctor’s house. A little boy, probably four, is playing on the front lawn. He still has rings of baby fat on his arms and legs and his cheeks are full. His blonde hair is sparse, like it’s still growing in, and sticks up at odd angles. His mother comes to stand on the front step and call him into the house.
Four. Few younger than six will survive. This boy will probably be eaten by the mother that feeds him.