‌I Want to Know More

I sit at Paul’s desk. Open drawers.

Shuffle through files. Bills. Tax documents.

I find what I’m looking for.

Mom’s divorce papers.

I want to know what really happened.

Fifiy percent custody. Alternating holidays.

Shared costs of orthodontia and college tuition. Take turns claiming me as a dependent whatever that means. Ironic given

how independent I’ve become lately.

Paul’s files are boring, except for

a bunch of ten-year-old hospital bills

and brochures about in vitro fertilization. Wow. Seriously?

Never occurred to me

that the twins weren’t just freaks of nature.

I’m glad Paul and Mom had Trevor.

As much as I resent sharing my room (It’s only… just temporarily, honey, until we get the basement finished…)

I adore the slobberface.

‌Photographs

A shoebox full of photographs on a closet shelf.

Some taken before my parents got married. College. Graduate school.

One from when they eloped in Las Vegas. I love my mom’s jeans and T-shirt.

My dad’s long, curly ponytail.

Baby photo of me in a

tie-dyed onesie snuggling a lamb. Pretty darned cute.

Mom must’ve enjoyed dressing me up. Different outfits in every photo.

Dad seated at the piano.

Me standing on the piano bench.

Leaning on his back making us both laugh. I pull that one out.

Set it aside.

School photos.

Happy holiday faces around Christmas trees.

Can’t remember some of those

early years together

just as a family of three.

Now impossible to imagine life without Jennifer and Paul and Trevor and the twins.

Hate stories about wicked stepmothers. The phrase “broken home” pisses me off.

At my sixth-grade back-to-school night the principal told all the families that

“children from broken homes were five times more likely to suffer mental issues than those where the family of origin was intact.”

Mom got so angry she cried.

Afierward, Dad told the principal

to do anatomically impossible things to herself on her way to hell.

Maybe once the evacuation order is lified we can write a book about our lives.

Or something.

And maybe

Emma’s family will be okay too, afier all.

‌Homesick

I take a baby photo of me reading and cuddling

in Mom’s lap and the photo of Dad and me at the piano out on the porch.

Sit and study

my parents’ faces.

Close my eyes. Picture them safe somewhere.

Together.

Mom and Dad talking intently to high-level military personnel who strategize about how to get back

to Millerville to rescue me.

Jennifer playing with Trevor while Paul and the twins consult with top military brass on expediting homecomings for all evacuees.

I smile

thinking my family might single-handedly halt

the imminent threat and save the day for me and the rest of the country.

I wonder who will play us in the movie.

‌It’s Weird

The imminent threat all the reporters were talking about

has yet to materialize. At least that I can see.

Aside from the power going out nothing has changed.

It’s weird

not having a device to turn to

with every urge to text someone go somewhere know something.

my body’s habits reaching clicking swiping bending

over my screens are breaking

my muscles are confused

but

my mind is steady

‌Days. Weeks. Months.

Weeds choke the yards

in all

the neighborhoods and grass

grows tall and goes to seed.

Dogs and cats roam

the streets foraging for food.

The summer crawls by and the

evenings begin to cool off.

I talk

to the silence.

Sometimes I sing.

I study

my features in the mirror looking

for traces

of my family.

I don’t recognize my face

but

I see

my father in my hands.

‌Comfort

Sprawled out on Mom’s bed in the glow

of solar garden lights wedged between

the headboard and the wall I reread her worn-out copy of Mrs. Mike for the gazillionth time.

Perfect escape from my reality.

Possibly the best

adventure-romance-fiction book ever written. Never fails to transport me out of my life and into the vastness

of Mrs. Mike’s Canadian wilderness.

Follow the geese north

over Millerville toward Wyoming over Montana toward Alberta.

Toward Sergeant Mike Flannigan Royal Canadian Mounted Police

in his red jacket with brass buttons.

Sergeant Mike and me.

Facing unrelenting threats of danger. Fighting to survive against all odds.

Doesn’t matter I am far from family and luxuries of civilization.

Together we can overcome and together we will. Together we do.

I close the book curl up on my side and sleep the sweet peaceful sleep

of fantasy.

‌Teenager

September 28.

I wake up early.

I know it’s my birthday because I’ve been marking the days

on Mom’s calendar.

126 days since evacuation.

Jennifer and I had planned a big shopping trip for the perfect teenager outfit.

I nudge the sleeping dog.

George opens one eye blinks at me, lets out a loud sigh and closes it again.

I don’t need his help.

I pull out Mom’s evening gowns and hold them up.

Dark blue with rhinestones scattered across one shoulder and down the back.

I slip it over my head.

Slide into a pair of Mom’s fancy strappy heels.

Too high and too pinched.

Flip-flops are better. My feet don’t show.

I shake my hair out of its braid.

Pin it to the top of my head in a glamorous updo.

I dig through Mom’s vanity. Rhinestone choker.

Fancy cocktail ring. Old-fashioned, sparkly clip-on earrings.

I put on eye shadow and blush.

Line my lips the way Emma taught me.

I’m a movie star.

I stand in front of

the full-length mirror and strike a

Katharine Hepburn pose.

George cocks his head. He sees the improvement over my usual

post-evacuation fashion.

No dystopian lack of style today.

Today

I’m a teenage goddess.

Sometimes I act younger than I am, but

I don’t care. There’s nobody here to see.

As the only human resident of Millerville, Colorado I can do

whatever I please on my

birthday.

‌Visitor

George sniffs around doing his business and I promenade

my finery through the backyard.

Dry, brittle tufis of grass catch the tulle underskirt and make it difficult to glide. Mom and Paul would die

if they could see

the state of the yard but what can I do without water

for sprinklers?

Is Mom recognizing the date? Trevor turned one already.

Are the twins ten yet? George growls.

Ten feet away

in the middle of the backyard

is a coyote.

George barks.

The coyote stares back. George rushes it.

The coyote hesitates for a split second before bounding over the fence

and disappearing into the tall grass.

George barks and barks. Sniffs all around where the coyote was.

I run up on the deck. Look in the direction the coyote ran.

Can’t see

any sign of it.

George keeps sniffing and barking.

Pacing back and forth in front of the fence where the coyote

jumped.

I call him to me.

Tell him what a good dog he is. Hug him.

The coyote was thin and thin means hungry.

What would he have done without George here?

What will he do next time?

I joke about the coyote bringing a birthday-gram. A singing coyote-gram.

I try to laugh

but my hands shake and my knees won’t hold me up.

I sit on the top step. George stands next to me on high alert.

I nuzzle my face into his warm side.

Such a good, good boy.

‌Magical Thinking

Upstairs.

Take off gown.

Pull bits of dead grass and pine needles out of hem.

Hang gown on padded velvet hanger. Return to closet.

Replace jewelry. Rebraid hair.

Pour water on cloth. Wash face.

Now bathing consists of heating lake water on the camp stove.

Using a soapy washcloth to scrub off what grime I can.

Hair is a different disaster.

Most of the time I just keep it up. Out of the way.

Mom and Dad must realize it’s my birthday. They must be thinking of me.

They could be thinking of me this very second.

What if right now

at this exact moment we are all thinking

of one another at the

exact same time?

We could trigger some kind of magical energy in the universe.

The power of our three hearts missing one another at the same time would be enough to break

this hellish spell. I make a wish.

Kneel on floor.

Press folded hands to forehead. Squeeze eyes shut.

I remember world religions from school. Imagine Jesus and Buddha and Muhammad sitting somewhere listening together

to people’s prayers from around the world.

I clasp my hands harder. Concentrate.

Please please please please please please. Let my parents find me.

Let my parents come home.

Let my parents find me.

Let my parents come home.

Let my parents find me.

Please please please please please please.

A warm tongue licks my cheek.

Eyes open onto George’s big black and brown face. He raises one tawny eyebrow. Cocks his head.

I close my eyes one last time.

Please please please please please please.

Amen.

‌Rite of Passage

A queer calm comes over me.

It’s clear that

for whatever reason my parents

are not able to come back.

I am on my own.

To survive until help arrives,

I must rely entirely on myself.

This birthday is not about evening gowns

dressing up playacting.

It’s time to stop fooling around with childish games and superficial nonsense.

Start acting like an adult whose life is at stake.

Childhood is over. Scissors.

Braid. (inhale) Cut.

Chop

until short spikes bristle all over

my head.

I coil the long braid in my hand. It feels alive.

I wrap the braid in

my mother’s silk scarf. Tuck it into the vanity. Under the mirror.

Out of sight.

I look down at the dog.

Time to get serious.

‌Change of Strategy

I’ve stayed close to home

all this time, certain someone was coming to find me.

Not wanting to miss them when they came.

Now staying alive is top priority even if it means going beyond the neighborhood.

There’s no telling when my parents might return. There’s no telling when my parents might return. There’s no telling when my parents might return.

If I say it a lot maybe I’ll start to understand it.

The days are cooling off. Getting shorter.

I need to think about the immediate future.

On hikes, Dad always harped on how fast the weather changed in Colorado.

How we needed to be prepared.

With no electricity and no furnace

I need to plan for what could be a cold, lonely winter. It always snows before Halloween.

There’s no time to waste.

‌Hunter-Gatherer

On patrol with George.

Our eyes are open for the coyote. Nothing.

Abandoned cars sit

in the supermarket parking lot like islands in the middle

of an asphalt ocean.

People pushing carts of groceries will emerge from the gaping doors at any moment.

Inside, skylights provide dim illumination. Smells of rotting food, urine, feces.

Impossible to breathe.

George’s nose twitches.

Fur on the back of his neck stands at attention. Hair rises on my own arms.

A toppled display of cookies and cakes. Plastic boxes chewed open, contents eaten. Overturned candy racks.

Half-eaten wrappers.

The dogs have been here.

Eyes straight ahead. Hands on cart.

Navigate around dog mess. Try not to breathe.

Five jumbo jugs of bottled water. Three cases of canned dog food. Dog treats.

Chew toys. Canned fruits.

Canned vegetables. Canned chili.

Canned spaghetti.

I don’t bother leaving a note.

I have stopped thinking in terms of imposing on other people’s property.

I think only of survival.

‌Ant (not Grasshopper)

It takes forever

to get home pushing

the big heavy shopping cart and

stopping to rest along

the way but

by visiting the store every day for a week I am able to restock the pantry with

plenty of food for me

and George as well as

drag in enough water

juice and

energy drinks to last through several blizzards.

I unpack the last load of supplies and park the empty shopping cart

around the east side of Mom’s garage. I exhale.

Exhausted from winning

a race

I didn’t even know

I was running.

‌Heat

I’ve made a critical mistake.

No wood-burning fireplaces on Lake Drive.

The houses are designed

with modern, gas-operated ones that turn on and off

with the flick of an electric switch. Useless.

They don’t even have chimneys.

No fire, no heat. No heat, no way we will survive

a Colorado winter.

‌We Have to Move

Dad’s house has

an old-fashioned woodstove in the living room.

We ofien use it in winter to help

heat the downstairs.

But Dad’s place is in Old Town, twice as far

as the trek

from Mom’s neighborhood to the supermarket.

The shortest route involves walking around the lake

on gravel trails that will not be easy

pushing a shopping cart full of supplies

over and over again.

Without heat, we’ll freeze. Without food, we’ll starve.

It’s already getting colder every night.

Time is running out. We have to move.

‌Plan B

Thirty yards down the lake path toward Dad’s house

the full shopping cart bogs down in the gravel and won’t roll.

Rocking makes it worse. Rocks jam the wheels.

Riding back and forth with the bike trailer

would be faster, even though it can only haul a fraction

of what’s in the cart. Back to Lake Drive.

Mom’s minivan looks at me from the driveway.

Do I dare?

What if I can’t

even manage to back it

out onto

the street, let alone make it

all the way

to Dad’s house and back?

WhatifIgetintrouble fordrivingunderage?

I had better dare or there

will be more serious consequences than illegally crashing

an abandoned car

in an abandoned town.

I shut George in the house and take the keys.

‌Driver’s Ed

I unlock the driver’s door grab my bike helmet

and climb in.

Safety first.

I buckle my seat belt across my lap

and click my helmet strap under my chin.

I turn the key.

Surprise and hallelujah! The engine starts.

The gas gauge points to a third of a tank.

I grip the steering wheel.

Try to slide the gear shifier into reverse. It won’t move.

I try again. It stays put.

Surely it isn’t supposed to take this much force. There must be a trick.

Think.

Why would it stay in park? What’s the advantage of that?

Safety first!

I press my foot on the brake pedal and try again.

The gear shifis easily into reverse. I whoop a victory whoop.

I ease my foot off the brake

and the car begins rolling backward down the driveway.

I turn the wheel and overcompensate so the rear end of the car backs up

on the front lawn.

Pushing down hard on the brakes throws me backward in my seat and the car stops abruptly.

I sit for a minute, choking on my heart in my throat.

At least it’s facing the right direction now.

I keep my foot pressed on the brake slide the gearshifi into drive

and inch down the street.

I circle the block four times before I feel confident enough to risk George’s life too.

I pull back into the driveway and start loading up the van.

‌Define Home, Anyway

I used to change houses every Monday

(homecoming

cominghome)

routinely reunited with one parent routinely separated from the other

a member of the Divorce Nomad Club

making the weekly switch according to the

custodial agreement. This is different.

Mom’s new, modern neighborhood

three-car garage (cold)

Dad’s one-hundred-year-old farmhouse

heirloom rosebushes (warm)

Empty houses aren’t home.

‌Woodstove

I’ve seen Dad light fires many times but I didn’t pay close attention.

I’ve never done it myself.

The last thing I need is to burn the house down.

I’ve got to do research. Before Evacuation

I had my computer. So now…? Think.

Before Google. Before Wikipedia. Before Internet.

“Come on, George.

We’re going to the library.”

‌Millerville Public Library

Front entrance is locked.

I try every other door but no luck.

In the back by the loading dock I find a basement entrance

next to a tall, thin window.

I choose a heavy rock from the landscaping and heave it.

The sound of shattering glass shocks the silent town

and I jump

forgetting for a moment there’s no one to chastise me. No reason to feel guilty.

I reach through pieces of jagged glass and unlock the door.

Inside

we make our way through dim light up to the main floor and

rows and rows of books.

We pass the children’s section where I spent hours

making crafis and singing along at Sandman Story Time.

We pass a bank of computers, all dark and an entire section of CDs, DVDs and recorded books. Worthless without power.

In the main section, eastern light from a big bank of windows illuminates the stacks.

I walk down rows, reading labels on ends of shelves.

Fiction goes on forever, and then magazines and newspapers.

Finally, nonfiction, but everything’s organized by random topics and numbers on spines don’t make sense.

How am I ever going to find a book about how to light a fire?

“Okay, George. We’re going to have to go row by row and check every shelf.

I’ll start over here and you start over there and let me know if you find something.”

George wags his tail and follows me.

Books about knitting and crocheting. Gardening and building birdhouses. Sailing and travel. History and politics.

Finally, a small section on camping.

No books about lighting fires in woodstoves but one with a chapter about building and extinguishing campfires.

I tuck it under my arm and head for Teen Fiction. George trots along beside me.

We browse novels until we’re armed

with enough reading to last several weeks. Jandy Nelson. John Green. Elana K. Arnold. Jason Reynolds. Laurie Halse Anderson.

In a state of emergency, there’s no limit on the books we can borrow.

Outside the service door, we surprise

a feral cat sniffing around the bike trailer. Her angry hiss startles me and

I jump and drop my books.

George tells her who’s boss and she dashes off. We load up our treasure and head for home.

‌Thank You, Laura Ingalls Wilder

I won’t take survival for granted

and I have no intention of being stuck in a Long Winter with no fuel.

My driving improves (I still wear my helmet

and seat belt every time).

I fill the van with firewood from neighbors’ yards.

Unload it into high stacks

on the front porch and around the side of the house.

I read the camping book cover to cover and practice building fires in the stove.

I scavenge a case of matches from the store and seal the boxes in plastic baggies.

They have to stay dry no matter what.

I debate driving east out of town

looking for others

or the edge of the evacuation. But how would I get gas?

What if I ended up stranded and lost somewhere?

I remember all the Little House stories where people took chances in winter and almost perished in the cold.

I could die in a blizzard far from home. Dad’s voice echoes in my head.

Stay put. Stay put. Stay put.

‌Five and a Half Months

Occasionally

on the crank radio I pick up a signal from a town

in a state far away

but more ofien than not all I find is static.

When I do find a station I listen for any mention of the imminent threat

or any plans

to end the evacuation

but I never learn anything beyond what I heard

that very first week.

Ofien I lie in the dark at night, wondering

if what I am hearing is prerecorded.

Nothing ever sounds current or specific.

When I let the radio fade

the night noises mix

with the static in my head.

My ears strain against the silence, hungry.

‌Darwin

Trapped

in the corner of an alley

between a garage and a dumpster

a rabbit shrinks trying to be as small as possible.

Three dogs bark and growl.

I ride briskly in the opposite direction but I can still

hear the rabbit when it screams.

‌Winter Storm

Freezing rain and wind take the last of the leaves still clinging to the trees.

Snowstorms shriek all night and the house shudders.

I push and drag my mattress into the front room.

Snuggle with George under layers of quilts warm and cozy by the woodstove.

We keep other doors in the house closed

to contain the warmth. I melt snow to wash.

Use bottled water to drink and cook.

I treat myself to hot cocoa

in my stepmother’s favorite blue mug.

‌To Pass the Time

I play solitaire like my grandma does

with cards spread across the ironing board lowered down in front of the recliner.

I sketch portraits of George. I read library books.

I ask Trivial Pursuit questions and try to guess the answers before I flip the cards over to see if I am correct.

I pull out Dad’s chessboard and play against myself rotating the board at each turn.

I watch the snow pile up in the yard and marvel at the magic

winter still works on the world.

‌Winter Refugees

Wherever my parents are and whether or not

they know by now that I was lefi behind there is surely

no hope of rescue

while winter is in full force. Roads will be impassable and airports abandoned.

“We’re ghosts, George. Ghosts in a twenty-first century ghost town.”

‌Short Days, Long Nights

Following each storm the sun emerges and melts the snow enough

to make venturing out possible.

I need to save gas and

I’m afraid of driving on icy roads so we explore the town on foot.

Check neighboring houses. Look for food and firewood.

Mostly, though, days are cold and dim. We sleep a lot.

Conserve batteries and propane. Even though I think we have plenty to last until the roads melt and clear I feel superstitious taking

anything for granted.

I read all the library books I borrowed.

I invent a new card game using three decks and a pair of dice. It takes several days to win.

I browse the books on my parents’ bookshelves.

Read about how to tune a piano.

What really caused the breakup of the Beatles. The history of Czechoslovakian theater design.

I study Jennifer’s field guides. Choose my favorite wildflowers.

Imagine hiking across a meadow with my family.

I fantasize picnics on mountainsides. Make imaginary deviled eggs.

Sprinkle dill and paprika. Top each one with a caper.

I can taste them on my tongue and feel warm granite under me.

But I learn to be cautious with my fantasies.

They can lead to an ache that begins

deep in my body, fills my torso, and crawls down my limbs until I can no longer

feel my hands or feet.

Sometimes longing combines with despair and leaks from the marrow of my bones swirls into my blood permeates my muscles invades my entire body.

When that happens

it takes all my strength to crawl into bed

and curl up

wondering

if I can make it through another frozen day, still alone.

‌Christmas

I drag boxes of ornaments up from the basement.

Hang shiny balls along curtain rods.

Light the Swedish Christmas candles. Watch heat from the flames rise.

Little wooden angels spin around in a circle.

I choose more books from the library

and a watercolor kit from the crafi section of the local drugstore.

Wrap them.

Decorate with ribbons and holly.

I find a special rawhide bone for George and tie a big bow around it.

I make Christmas dinner: turkey soup

canned cranberry relish canned squash

boxed cornbread stuffing with dried apricots canned apple pie filling

Afier dinner, we open our presents.

Sing Christmas carols. “Silent Night” makes me cry so we switch to

“Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”

We sit by the fire. George gnaws his bone. I paint his portrait.

Think about a holy family alone in a strange land wondering

what their future holds.

‌Trust

Each day

I brush snow off the front porch. Lay out a row of sunflower seeds.

I sit still and quiet at one end of the porch.

Squirrel comes down from his nest in the cottonwood tree.

Collects each seed one by one.

As the days pass

I make the row closer and closer to me.

One day

the row leads right to a seed in the palm of my hand.

Squirrel gathers the seeds

runs back and forth up the tree to deliver his treasures.

When he reaches my hand he pauses.

Grabs the seed.

Is up the tree again before I can blink.

Every morning afier that he comes right to me.

Eats breakfast out of my hand.

‌Snow Falls, Melts, Falls Again

The woodpile grows smaller on the side of the house.

I teach myself “Clementine” and “You Are My Sunshine” on Dad’s ukulele.

I sing songs to myself.

Tell George stories

about handsome dogs and brave girls.

‌Making Art

I spend one whole afiernoon searching through magazines

and catalogs for images of people.

Use my art knife to cut out photographs. Combine them into different bodies.

Different settings. Different families.

Shellac them onto card stock and fragments of broken glass.

I hang the installation from the chandelier over the dining room table.

Air currents move the families slightly on their strings

but they never tangle or cross or meet.

‌One Morning

I unlock the front door. Let George out.

A spot of color on the ground.

A bright purple crocus peeks out of the muddy snow.

Over the next days, more crocuses holler up from their winter beds. We count and greet each one.

Then yellow daffodils

followed by a rainbow of tulips up and down the street.

By the time the irises send up their spiky stalks spring is official and

a new sense of hope blooms in my heart.

‌ffeuil

(n.) grave risk; exposure to injury, loss, or destruction; danger

‌Menace

I pedal my bike down the dry-enough road. Steer around places still coated with icy mud. Avoid potholes.

We’re heading to Bullseye.

Need new shoes and jeans

to replace the ones I’ve outgrown. Dog food, propane, lantern mantles.

George lopes alongside. Nose in air, sniffing spring.

Around the corner behind the post office George freezes.

Growls low and deep.

“What is it, buddy?” I wheel around.

Come back where he has halted. Fur on the back of his neck stands straight up.

A car door slams. Wait—a car door slams? Incomprehensible.

Dismount. Turn in circles. Look for an explanation.

Something crashes. Metal hits metal.

I cry out.

Run toward Main Street and

the certain presence of other humans.

Almost to the corner.

Explosion of breaking glass stops me hard. A cry of pain.

Is this the imminent threat? A man’s angry voice.

“Keep whining about how tired you are

and next time I won’t just break your nose.” I stay frozen with George silent beside me.

The same angry voice barks orders. “Let’s go! Come on, move it!

Back that truck up here and get it loaded. We gotta be over the border by dark.”

Gears grind.

The beep-beep-beep of a truck in reverse echoes off buildings.

Other men’s voices rumble. Shout to each other.

Metal hits metal again.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!

Pick up the pace, you morons.” Angry Voice is closer.

I move into shadows. George follows.

We slip down the alley.

I grab a bit of muddy clothesline. Tie George to the fence.

He whines but I tell him to shush. He sits down.

Cocks his head.

I inch around the side of the building. Men shout.

Call to one another.

I peer over a windowsill into the appliance store.

See across the showroom and out through the display windows

to the street beyond.

Angry Voice has a shaved head. Mirrored sunglasses.

Combat boots.

His scalp is tattooed

with a skull tangled in thorns.

Other men push heavy appliances through broken display windows to a moving truck on the sidewalk. Their heads are also shaved.

Ink stains their arms.

They aren’t careful.

They shove and stack appliances.

Cram as much as possible into the truck.

Throw smaller items into the bed of a pickup parked in the street.

Blood gushes from one man’s nose but he keeps working.

More glass breaks.

Two men come out of the Antique Attic with a cash register.

Add it to the rest.

Angry Voice shouts from the sidewalk. Points up the block.

“You two—head over to the pawnshop. Grab anything we can fence

or sell for scrap.

But no serial numbers!”

The men run.

Chains on their boots rattle.

I crouch down beneath the window. Hide behind an air-conditioning unit. I am sure they can hear my heart sledgehammering my ribs.

I stay still.

‌On the One Hand

These men are not government or military. Not a rescue squad.

They remind me of rioters I saw on the Internet.

What did he mean by fence? And why no serial numbers?

When they finish looting the street will they start on neighborhoods?

‌On the Other Hand

They also remind me of the pastors at the megachurch. The ones with

Carhartt work clothes and hipster tattoos. Shaved heads don’t necessarily equal danger.

These are the first people I’ve seen in months. They have the power to get me out of here.

They might have cell phones I can use. Give me a ride to an evacuation center.

Then again, it seems like they’re breaking the law.

If they know I’ve seen them stealing they might not help me at all.

If they turn out to be dangerous,

I have no protection against them.

If they’re creeps as well as thieves I could be in much deeper trouble than I can ever escape.

‌Can’t Think Straight

Think. Think. Think.

All my thoughts are questions. None of them are thoughts.

risk? rescue? help? safety? criminals? danger? assault?

A voice shouts from up the street.

‌The Deciding Factor

“Hey! Check out what we found

in the pawnshop!” I spy.

A man jogs back to the group.

He holds a tiny kitten, mewing and squirming.

“What the hell?”

Angry Voice looks at him like he’s crazy. “What exactly do you plan to do with that?”

“Keep it? It’s kind of cute.

It can ride in the pocket of my jacket.”

Angry Voice looks at him. Holds out his hand. “Lemme see it.”

Takes the kitten. Holds it.

Picks up a towel from the truck bed. Wraps the kitten tightly.

Swings the towel twice up over his head

and slams it hard into the side of the big truck.

Tosses the towel and its contents back to the man. Turns and shouts orders at the others.

The man holds the towel. Nothing moves.

He tosses it into the dirty snow. Climbs into the back of the truck. Helps muscle a dishwasher on board.

These are not my rescuers. If I’m not careful,

I will need to be rescued from them.

I inch back down the alley to where George waits.

‌Please Don’t Bark, George

We sprint away.

Thank God

there isn’t enough snow to leave tracks.

We dodge in and out of shadows.

I want to go back for my bike but can’t risk being seen.

I hope if the looters find it in the street

they will think it abandoned in the evacuation.

At Dad’s house

I lock the doors. Run upstairs.

Peer down through curtains to the street below.

Nothing moves.

(So glad I didn’t make a fire this morning. No woodsmoke smell.)

Mind rips through possibilities.

What if they go looting house to house? What if they find me?

What if they hurt me?

Breathe in. Exhale. Breathe in. Exhale. Breathe in. Exhale.

One thing is clear.

I need to know what’s happening. I need to see and know for sure.

I have one advantage.

I know where they are but

they have no idea I exist.

‌Reconnaissance

Dad’s black sweatshirt. Jennifer’s black jeans. Black stocking cap.

Feed George.

Scratch him between the ears. Good boy. Stay.

Lace up boots.

Slip out back door. Lock.

Run toward Main Street. Stay in alleys.

Between garages.

Stop frequently to listen.

I hear them before I see them.

The looters have progressed farther down the street and are at the Park-n-Ride.

They hoist up barrels of cell phones

dump the phones into

the back of the pickup.

Metallic waterfall of plastic and glass.

Angry Voice leans against the bus shelter. Lights a cigarette.

I drop to my hands and knees. Crawl on my belly under a hedge of forsythia bushes.

Peer through branches.

Men toss empty barrels aside. Reach for others.

Angry Voice barks.

“Come on, you idiots, move it!”

He swears.

They hustle to pick up the next barrel. He flicks the ash from his cigarette.

His eyes glance over ads on the side of the shelter.

My heart stops.

Right in plain sight taped to the bus shelter faded from winter

is my sign from last May

announcing I am here. Begging for help.

I freeze as Angry Voice’s eyes read over my words.

HELP! HELP! HELP!

I WAS LEFT BEHIND AND MISSED THE TRANSPORT!

PLEASE CALL!

He turns.

Scans the parking lot.

I press myself lower into the ground. Pray the bushes will keep me concealed.

He fishes a phone out of his pocket. Turns back to my sign.

Dials.

Reads something on the screen. Puts the phone back in his pocket. Reaches into the moving truck.

Binoculars.

Climbs up on top of the cab. Peers through the lenses.

Scrutinizes the entire area. 360 degrees.

A man with a tattooed neck calls up to him.

“That’s the last of them.”

He lowers the binoculars. “Right. Load up then.”

Trucks roar to life.

Men climb into a passenger van.

Angry Voice slides down from the roof of the cab.

Climbs into the driver’s seat. Flicks his cigarette into the gutter.

All three vehicles pull out onto Main Street. Accelerate in the direction of the interstate.

I stay frozen until I can no longer hear the rumble of the biggest truck.

Once it has been silent for several lifetimes I roll onto my back and exhale.

Tears roll down my cheeks.

I didn’t know it was possible to be relieved and devastated

at the same time.

‌After

For days afierward

I have trouble sleeping. What-ifs haunt me.

I’m terrified to think

what might have happened if they’d found me. But still

not convinced being found would have been all bad.

Any sound makes me jump out of my skin.

I wait more than a week before

I start using lights again at night.

I find my bike where I lefi it. Ride cautiously through town.

Survey the damage the looters did to all the local businesses.

Broken windows. Broken doors. Destroyed property. Huge messes.

But now access to stores is easier for me. I am oddly grateful as I go in and out

filling the bike trailer with supplies.

In the little jewelry store smashed display cases empty of watches and silver and pearls.

In the back room

toppled tables and chairs. Someone tried and failed to pull the safe out

from under the counter. Looted workbenches.

I open drawers, looking for tools supplies that might come in handy.

There, in a bottom drawer

under issues of gemstone magazines and a six-pack of pocket tissues

I find a handgun.

Black and large and heavy. I hold it in both hands.

I whistle.

Would I be capable of using a gun against those men? To protect myself?

shattered glass

fresh blood on a white T-shirt

a little bundle in the dirty snow

Yes.

He killed a kitten without blinking an eye.

Absolutely, yes.

I will do whatever it takes to stay alive.

And I have no idea what the outside world

is becoming.

I search all drawers and cupboards.

Find bullets on a top shelf behind cleaning solvents.

I wrap the gun

in my sweatshirt.

Tuck it into the bike trailer along with the ammunition and

other supplies.

I mount my bike and ride on.

‌Annie Oakley

The first time I fire the gun the noise and kick of the blast make me bite my tongue.

I find a library book about the safe use of firearms.

Practice loading and unloading.

Lock George in the house.

Shoot cans and bottles

in the back alley behind Dad’s garage. Find George hiding in the coat closet.

My aim improves.

I can hit my target more ofien than not.

‌Spring Rolls Toward Summer

George and I move back to Mom’s cooler

more comfortable house

on the other side of the lake.

I stay vigilant.

Never go anywhere unarmed. Months go by.

The looters don’t return. Neither does anyone else.

We patrol the town.

Keep an eye open for anything out of the ordinary. Scavenge food and supplies.

I relax a little.

Stop bringing the gun along every time we go out.

Leave it at home loaded on top of the refrigerator.

Ready to grab at a moment’s notice.

‌Had to Happen

I wake up early one morning to pee. Blood in the toilet.

My first period.

I know what to do from all Mom’s your-body-is-a-beautiful-miracle conversations.

Find pads under the sink in the master bathroom.

I’m not afraid, but along with the ache in my lower back

a familiar weight sneaks up. Surrounds my heart.

Usually I push the weight down.

Stay focused on the job of keeping myself and George alive, but this time

I let it wash over me.

This ordinary yet significant event finds a fissure

in the emotional wall I’ve built.

I miss my mother more than ever.

Getting my period is supposed to be a rite of passage.

My mom is supposed to make

a big embarrassing deal about it.

Supposed to celebrate that I am Normal and Perfect

and Becoming a Woman.

In a French film Dad and Jennifer love the mother slaps her daughter’s cheeks the first time she gets her period.

The mother explains

it’s to give her a rosy complexion. Attract lots of boys.

Ha.

Any crushes I might attract are who-knows-how-many miles away and I bet no one has even

thought about me since Before Evacuation.

Even if they could see me now they’d never recognize the wild-looking spiky-haired

girl I have become.

And would they even like me? Doubtful.

Would Ashanti and Emma?

What would they think of my thieving and shooting and driving and disregarding every law ever made

by the county sheriff or the fashion police?

Have they started their periods yet? Were their mothers with them?

Mom could slap my cheeks until the cows come home and it wouldn’t do a thing to help my freckled complexion.

I am so tired of holding it all together.

‌Anything at All

I would give anything

to have a real, live grown-up

take over all the worry and fear and work that I’ve been doing for the past year

and just let me fall apart.

I want nothing more than to cuddle up next to Mom and have her

stroke my hair and sing me to sleep like she did when I was small.

I wonder for the millionth time if I made a mistake

not revealing myself to the looters.

What if their toughness was just an act?

What if they had rescued me and taken me to safety?

What if I would already be reunited with my family by now?

If I had taken the chance

all this loneliness and isolation might have been over months ago.

I’ll never know if the risk I didn’t take was the stupidest decision of my life or the thing that saved it.

But I am alive now and as painful as it is

loneliness alone won’t kill me. At least I hope not.

‌Soulmate

George senses my sorrow.

Nudges my hand with his sofi nose. I kiss him.

Press my forehead to his broad brow. Souls merge and swirl.

Such a good dog.

My lower back aches.

I decide our plan to haul bottled water from the gas station can wait.

I curl into George’s solid form. Snuggle up against his warm side. Hum Mom’s favorite lullaby until we both fall back to sleep.

‌Model Home

One afiernoon we leave the bike

and hike to the far side of the creek trail.

Wander through a half-built neighborhood development lefi unfinished.

Foundations surround gaping cellars.

Skeleton frameworks of ghost houses, waiting for walls and windows.

At the end of a cul-de-sac

one solitary, finished house with a sign out front: MODEL HOME.

A model home for model families.

A fist clenches in my chest.

Catches me off guard. My ears thrum.

A high-pitched cicada call of blood

rushes through my brain.

queasy

lean forward hands on knees going to throw up going to throw up going to throw up but then

maybe not

maybe just soul-sick sick-and-tired sick spit-in-the-dust sick

Model Family my ass.

Two-dimensional sticker families on the back windows

of minivans, jeering at

the divorced kids riding behind them in the car-pool line.

Stick figures brandishing totems of ecstatic idiocy— coffee cups and golf clubs soccer balls and pom-poms

Where is the sticker stepkid with her sticker suitcase?

Hauling between sticker weeks back and forth

between sticker houses?

Subdividing the twenty-four hours of sticker Christmas between

four sticker adults and

two sticker street addresses?

A truly model home would need twice the number of bedrooms for half the number of children.

I belong to a family all by myself:

the only intersection between four parents who try to make peace as if peace is a pie

that can be baked sliced and served at progressive dinners rotating the children from table to table house to house.

I pick up the heaviest rock I can find

and hurl it through the big front window.

The splintering crash is almost satisfying.

‌Building Site

We pick our way through the half-finished construction

of the neighborhood. Look for forgotten tools. Useful items.

Find one house with a plywood ramp leading to a doorway.

“Come on, George. Let’s check it out.”

We explore the ground floor and I imagine what it could look like.

I paint the walls rich hues to match plush Persian carpets.

I build bookcases on one wall.

Add a window seat to a bay window.

I find what will become the staircase to the second floor.

There are only slats where steps should be but they are wide enough to climb

if I use my hands.

George puts his front paws on the bottom slat but doesn’t continue. He barks

as I climb higher.

“Hush, George.”

He whines. Sits down. Watches me.

I climb up and stand.

Look out over the open floor plan. No constructed walls yet so

I have to guess where bedrooms will start and stop.

Holes in the floor suggest a bathroom but with no walls, interior decoration is more difficult.

George barks and whines below.

“Good boy, George. I’m coming. Just a minute.”

In the minute I say “minute” lightning blinks across the sky.

Thunder rolls and rumbles in the distance.

George barks again.

“Oh, Georgie, it’s just a little thunderstorm. Don’t be such a baby.”

George yelps.

The wind kicks up.

I shield my eyes from blowing sand. “I’m coming, boy. Don’t worry.”

I make the top of the stairs and glance at the sky.

Dark storm clouds.

A thin gray finger forms in the distance.

Points down and then pulls up again

teasing and poking at the ground beneath it.

Crap.

The tornado touches earth.

A cloud of dust and debris flies up around the funnel.

“George!” I shout, climbing down. I fight wind and hail.

George barks.

Runs back and forth. “Let’s go!”

‌Come On, George

We run to the doorway. Down the ramp.

Slip on wet plywood.

Land in mud at the bottom. Look around for shelter.

Everything is exposed.

The MODEL HOME sign blows past me. Slams into the foundation.

“George! Make for the house!”

We plow through the mud.

Run down the street to the cul-de-sac with the lone house at the end.

The sky is guacamole.

I glance over my shoulder.

The tornado is closing the distance between us.

“Come on, George!”

I put my head down against the hail.

We reach the backyard. Run to the door.

Locked.

See window wells open down

to basement rooms.

“Come on, George!”

I run for the nearest well.

At the edge of the grass, my foot catches.

I smack down hard on my hands and knees. Pain sears through my lefi leg.

Blood gushes from a gash in my shin.

Sharp landscape edging drips sticky red.

George barks again. The tornado roars.

I drag myself the last five feet. Lower my legs over the edge. Drop six feet to the ground below.

“Come on, George! Attaboy, you can do it!” George whines.

Puts his front paws over the edge of the well.

I start to cry.

“Come on, boy! Please, George!” He puts his head on his paws.

Looks down at me.

The wind is deafening now. The air is full of debris.

I turn to the window. Try to slide it open.

Locked.

I shifi my weight onto my hip.

With my good leg, I break the window. Reach around and unlock it.

Slide it open and slip through.

I lose my balance and for a moment I can’t tell if I’m falling or dizzy

or both.

I land on the carpet in a family room. My body is still but my brain still spins. I can’t find George.

The safest place will be a bathroom

close to plumbing and away from windows. I drag my throbbing leg across the floor toward a closed door.

Discover two bedrooms and a closet before I find the bathroom.

Crawl to the bathtub.

Pull myself over and inside.

The last thing I hear before I pass out is the crash and shatter of the windows upstairs imploding.

‌Consciousness

My neck hurts.

I moan and shifi position but I’m trapped

in something hard and cold. I open one eye. All is white.

Pain stabs when I try to sit up.

Turn my head.

I’m in the bathtub. It’s completely silent. I survived.

‌Equilibrium

I don’t know how long

I was unconscious or how long

the storm lasted but a dim glow

from the family room suggests

it’s still daylight outside.

I pull myself to a seated position and on the floor next to the bathtub is George.

Head on his paws

he tracks me with his eyes. Wags his stub of tail.

Gazes up.

I try to stand

but the pain in my leg surprises me.

I fall backward.

George stands up and presses himself

against the bathtub. Looks at me. Barks.

I lean over and put my weight on him. Balance on one leg.

He braces me as I shifi forward. Maneuver over the edge of the tub. Mission accomplished.

I lie, panting, on the bathroom floor. “This could be a long day, buddy.”

‌Injured

The gash on my leg looks like a canyon cut by an angry river. Crimson. Striated. Raw.

A trail of blood leads from outside the bathroom door across the floor and into the tub.

I pull decorative towels off the towel rack. Take off my T-shirt and rip it into strips. Wrap a towel around the wound on my leg. Cinch it with strips of shirt.

Wearing only my sports bra and shorts I struggle to stand.

Even with George’s help, I can’t walk.

“I’m gonna need a crutch or something, George. We’ve gotta find a first aid kit and I’m betting that

Model Homes don’t have anything that useful in them.”

Room inventory:

a vase with silk flowers

a scented candle on the back of the toilet

a floral shower curtain hanging from a shower rod A shower rod.

Held in place by nothing more than a spring and some tension. I smile.

“There’s my crutch, George.”

I gather the shower curtain in both hands. Scoot on the floor to the middle of the room. Brace my good leg against the tub.

Pull as hard as I can with both hands.

The rod pops out. Falls down with a clatter. I tear off the curtain.

The rod and George help me stand.

Upstairs, we survey the mess. Shattered windows.

Draperies and paintings in tatters. Furniture upended.

Kitchen cupboard doors hang askew on their hinges.

The front door

that had been locked before has vanished.

We hobble onto the front porch.

Where before there were at least

a dozen half-built house skeletons now there is nothing.

Not a single two-by-four or piece of plywood remains.

The only indications that this land

had ever been intended for a neighborhood are the gaping cellar mouths every fifiy feet.

“Holy crap, George. We’re lucky to be alive. I guess this really is a Model Home.”

‌First Aid

The sun is high in the sky.

We limp along for what feels like hours. Tree limbs litter the streets and sidewalks but nothing else in town appears damaged. We head north toward the drugstore.

The looters helpfully broke the lock on the door. I move the brick I had wedged there to keep animals out afier my last shopping expedition.

I make my way down the first aid aisle. Sit to nurse my wound.

Blood has dried and caked on the towels. I bite my lip to keep from crying as

I pull off the makeshifi dressing.

Before Evacuation, I would get stitches. Little point in thinking like that now.

I pour hydrogen peroxide onto the wound and cry aloud from the burning pain.

I curse as it bubbles and froths a foamy pink.

An infection could be the end of me.

I grit my teeth and pour on some more.

When the bottle is empty, I pat the wound dry.

Apply a liberal coating of antibiotic ointment. Dress it in clean bandages.

Wrap an Ace bandage over the entire thing.

“Okay, George. I think I’m ready for a guest appearance on Emergency 911.”

I rub his head between his ears.

“Let’s get you some food before we head home.”

We make our way to the pet food aisle. Break open a box of dog biscuits.

George devours them while I drink

a bottle of Gatorade in big, thirsty gulps. A package of peanut butter crackers and a Kit Kat bar give me new energy.

I fill a bag with first aid supplies and see the perfect solution to my problem.

Propped in a big rack next to the pharmacy is a wide assortment of crutches.

I choose two, adjust them to my height and begin the arduous walk home.

‌Fever

My grandparents’ apartment is as far

as I manage to go.

I prop the door for George to go pee.

collapse on Grandma’s bed

wake up achy and hot dark out

bedroom door spins on its hinges

slowly

then faster and faster

a red rubber ball bounces

through the room ricochets

off ceiling and walls

drumbeats pummel my brain

I fall backward

but

where the bed should be it isn’t

tumble through space dizzy

disoriented

George’s head under my hand

I know I need to drink

Dad’s voice

pounds on my eyeballs “Stay hydrated!”

force sips of soda lefi over

from the sleepover that wasn’t

joints hurt

freezing or drenched in sweat

kick off covers

smell Grandma’s perfume on the pillowcases

Grandpa wipes my forehead takes my temperature

I was almost five when my parents divorced

spent long days and nights

in my grandparents’ care

climb the big bed tuck in under Grandma’s arm listen to her read

Little House in the Big Woods

Trixie Belden mysteries

now

in my feverish delusions I conjure them

to care for me again

‌Close Call

I sit up.

My wound has soaked through the bandages. I unwrap it.

The cut is infected and oozing pus. More hydrogen peroxide.

Antibiotic ointment.

Wrap it in clean bandages.

Fall back into fits of troubled sleep.

How long do I sleep? How many hours elapse?

Sometimes it’s daylight. Other times, it’s dark.

The stars move crazily through the windows.

Every time I regain consciousness I’m aware of George at my side.

Finally, my skin is cool. No more itchy, hot eyes. I rise up on my elbows. My head doesn’t ache.

George looks up at me from the floor. Wags his stumpy tail.

“Hey there, buddy. How’re you doing?” He scoots on his belly to be closer to me. I rub his head.

“Thanks for taking care of me, sweet boy.” I press my forehead to his.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He licks my cheek and whimpers.

“You need something to eat, don’t you? Poor baby. Come on.”

I get to the kitchen.

Find crackers and canned tuna. Collapse on the couch to check my cut.

The angry red has faded.

No longer appears infected. I clean and dress it.

Sit back against the couch cushions.

I’m already exhausted but relieved.

I’ve managed to escape another close call.

‌Autumn

Chill in the air. Days grow shorter.

I fire up the minivan.

Drive all the way to SuperSave

for winter supplies. Back to Dad’s house.

Only drive when absolutely necessary. Conserve fuel.

I walk and bike as much as possible

but the cut in my leg still slows me down. Puckery pink scar aches.

‌Reading Project

I am reading my way alphabetically through the fiction section of the library.

Rule #1: Skip the book if I don’t like the first page.

Rule #2: Quit the book if it isn’t interesting by page 21.

Rule #3: Quit the book if there are no important female characters. Rule #4: I can read books out of order if I want to.

I have read 147 novels and

thirteen short story collections and I am three-quarters of the way through the Bs.

Like: Louisa May Alcott Love: Charlotte Brontë

I get Jane Eyre.

We get each other. We get loneliness.

“I can live alone, if self-respect, and circumstances require me so to do.…

I care for myself.

The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am,

the more I will respect myself.”

Jane thinks my thoughts.

‌I Cling to the Belief That

My parents survived the evacuation.

My parents are healthy and safe somewhere.

My parents must know by now I was lefi behind. My parents will not rest until we are reunited.

My parents will rescue me.

My story will have a happy ending.

‌Almanac

In the reference section of the library

I find an almanac with calendars going back hundreds of years in the past

and forward hundreds of years in the future.

I plot how many days and months have passed since I was lefi behind.

If my calculations are correct

I’ve been alone in Millerville for

seventeen months eleven days

and counting.

‌Recommended Teen Fiction

The most popular books on the library shelf

(the ones the girls at school pass around like popcorn) provide little comfort.

To hell with these heroines who have entire dystopias rooting for them as they fight

to save the day.

Sure, their parents are missing in action

but I’d like to see them try to survive completely alone without any help

from friends or teammates.

Sure, they’re brave most of the time but they’re part

of something bigger

that inspires them when times are tough. Their societies are messed up, but at least they belong.

Sure, I wish I had

their skills and resources but I wonder

would they fare so heroically if faced with the vast loneliness and uncertainty

that is my everyday experience?

Not likely.

‌And Another Thing

What about the imminent threat? What is so dangerous or so threatening

that absolutely everyone had to leave?

Seriously? Everyone?

Obviously George and I are just fine.

Unless we’re breathing some invisible poison gas

that takes months and months to kill us or

an invading army is on its way in which case they are taking their sweet time getting here and I wish they’d hurry up

so at least someone somewhere would know I’m here.

What did the TV call it? Operation Relocate Freedom?

What does that even mean, anyway?

‌Misgivings

The looters said they had to get to the border. Which border?

Can I possibly be the only person lefi

in the entire western United States?

I should leave Millerville. Take the car and drive as far east as the gas will take me.

Surely I’ll find other people in other towns who have also

been lefi behind or forgotten.

Take the chance. Venture out.

Seek help.

If only

I could be sure there was someone out there to find.

And the person won’t be a dangerous criminal

or a psycho kitten killer.

If only

I could be sure

I would survive.

‌Then Again

I’ve been across eastern Colorado and Kansas

and there is nothing but miles and miles of farmland.

What if the car runs out of gas in the middle of nowhere?

And even if

I could get to a farmhouse it would likely be abandoned with limited supplies of canned foods and no bottled water.

I would starve if I didn’t freeze to death first.

And even if

I didn’t run out of food or gas what if I surprised more looters?

Or came upon

the ever-so-mysterious and oh-so-dangerous threat to national security

that caused the evacuation in the first place?

‌First Best Chance

Staying put is my first best chance of being found and rescued.

The risks if I leave are too great.

When frightening thoughts creep in I will force them aside and visualize my parents coming to find me.

I picture them driving in cars or flying in planes. I imagine them coming on foot or on horseback.

I sometimes even imagine them flying across the prairie in a Star Wars landspeeder.

No force in the universe is strong enough to keep them apart from me.

All George and I have to do is stay alive and we will be found.

‌Winter

Overnight

the brown, wet world transforms

into a frozen white frostland.

I pull on my stepmother’s snow gear. Mine has grown too small.

“Come on, George! Let’s go!”

I trample an icy path to the back shed. Drag out my father’s snowshoes.

We stomp through the drifis.

Head up the road toward the lake park trail.

Not a single creature has disturbed the sparkly crust of snow.

A glittery reminder of just how alone we really are.

The only sounds we hear are our own heavy breaths

and the whish-whish of snow pants striding back and forth.

George bounds ahead.

Darts back.

Leaps up and down in the drifis like the lambs that used to play in the pasture

next to my elementary school.

I throw a snowball.

He catches it in his mouth but it explodes on impact.

Up and on we trudge

cresting the summit of the trail to find Miner’s Lake frozen

and twinkling before us.

On the snowy surface of the ice tiny rabbit prints scamper

from one shore to another despite the owls and coyotes that hunt here.

We follow the trail circling the lake. Stop to listen to the snowy quiet.

Breathe the sharp, cold air.

A shadow moves on the ground.

A raptor’s silhouette soars in the sky. We hunker down to watch.

The bird circles the lake

lower and lower until I see

white feathers on its head and tail.

Bald eagles ofien winter here but I have never seen one

this close before.

The eagle catches an updrafi rises in the air

turns and glides down lands on the ice

just a few feet from the unfrozen center.

Poses there majestic and still. So still in fact

I think it has fallen asleep.

My legs cramp from squatting.

Then the bird bursts open and lifis off

clutching a fat fish in its talons.

Wings its way up over the treetops out of sight.

‌I Can Almost Pretend

In Mom’s neighborhood the overgrown yards

and gardens

previously wild from neglect are neat and tidy

in their winter coats.

The houses look cozy and comfortable belying their frigid empty interiors.

I can almost pretend it’s just an ordinary snowy morning.

The rest of Millerville is still asleep.

The most extraordinary event all day will be one eagle’s spectacular catch and the premature death of

one unlucky bass.

‌Book Report

It feels wrong

to traipse through Mom’s house tracking snow on the carpets

but it’s too cold to take off my boots.

I think my mother would understand.

I walk through the rooms checking windows

are latched and locked. Everything seems in order.

In the dining room

a piece of paper sticks out from under the cabinet against the wall.

Elliott’s book report on

Island of the Blue Dolphins.

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‌Grief

my tears smear the ink and run across the title

I blot it with my scarf the paper blurs

Elliott was right.

I was too stupid and self-centered to even realize it.

food and shelter are nothing compared to the challenge of

never holding another person’s hand never hearing another person’s voice

staying alive isn’t easy

but it’s a heck of a lot easier than keeping my heart hopeful and

my mind focused on what’s

real

loneliness and insanity are twin houseguests and

it’s hard to entertain one without inviting the other in as well

‌Regret

My mind spins with memories.

So many times I was rude to my stepparents.

How I stiffened when Mom tried to kiss me good night.

All the times I opted to stay in my room alone

sulking

rather than join Dad and Jennifer for a movie night.

I’m ashamed.

I would give anything just to see them

hear their voices touch their hands.

And Elliott.

His handwriting sings into the emptiness

of my heart.

He and James must be eleven by now. Do they ever think of me?

“But she has to keep herself company and give herself pep talks.…”

Nine-year-old Elliott’s words float before me. He is so smart.

I do have to give myself pep talks. I do have to keep myself company.

Karana did it for eighteen years and she was rescued.

When it finally happened

she wasn’t crazy with loneliness. She was excited.

In her best dress and her jewelry she walked proudly down

to her rescuers

taking her animals with her.

She was triumphant. Not a victim.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself Madeleine Albright Harrison.”

I startle George.

He looks up from the rug where he was dozing. “My parents didn’t name me afier

the first woman secretary of state so that I’d turn into a pathetic

pile of poo at the first sign of trouble.

I haven’t survived this long and

worked this hard only to fall apart over a fourth-grade homework assignment. I need to pull my sorry self together and get out there to enjoy this beautiful day.”

I fold Elliott’s book report and tuck it into the pocket of my parka.

‌After Months of Snow

warm breeze snow melting

trees and roofiops drip drip drip

open windows fresh air

buds sprout on limbs

crocus crack through icy earth i can’t help but feel hopeful

‌Spring Cleaning

Out back

a cool shadow from the house protects a wide snowbank.

I pack Jennifer’s largest cooking pot with snow.

Set it on the wood-burning stove.

I bathe myself in hot water. Wash my hair.

Refill the pot. Wash my clothes.

Hang them in the warming air to dry.

I pull apart my bedding.

Shake out blankets and comforters. Drape them along the picket fence to breathe the fresh spring weather.

I pretend to be Laura Ingalls Wilder in Little House on the Prairie.

Sweep the whole house. Wipe down the surfaces.

Wash away grime and grit from a winter of closed doors and woodsmoke.

Afier a long season of hibernation my body likes the heavy chores.

The change in the weather and the strength in my muscles spark new courage.

‌What If

What if I’ve been wrong

to think that staying put is the best option?

What if it will be years

before anyone will return to town?

What if forces beyond their control

prevent my parents from coming for me no matter how much they might want to?

AND

What if there are people closer than I realize?

What if there are people like me

who were lefi behind in Denver?

What if they are living

as close as thirty miles away?

If I can figure out a way to travel safely with minimal risk

it can’t hurt to venture out and explore.

Can it?

Is it worth using up the gasoline in the minivan?

Is there a way to take gas from other cars lefi behind? What if I get lost?

What if I find people and they turn out to be dangerous? What if I run into the looters?

What if there are other dangers like wild animals

I might not be able to defend against?

What if? What if? What if?

‌Curiosity Wins

Gas is too precious to waste

on a trip that might amount to nothing.

I try other cars with neighbors’ keys. All dead.

I don’t know how many lonely winters might lie ahead.

If I lose the use of the minivan, packing in needed supplies will be much more difficult.

BUT

that doesn’t mean exploratory trips are off the table.

Denver’s too far to venture by bike but Lewistown and Peakmont aren’t.

Lewistown is closer, but Peakmont is bigger.

Might have folks like me who were lefi behind

OR

supplies that could be useful. Peakmont has a hardware store.

As soon as temperatures are consistently warm enough I’m setting out to see what I can discover.

‌Strength and Conditioning

I begin a daily routine by lifiing Dad’s free weights and taking long walks, then long runs through the neighborhoods.

I ride my bike all over town, choosing routes that take me up long, winding hills.

I gain strength and endurance and so does spring.

By the time the forsythia boughs erupt in their lavish yellow blossoms

and the early redbud trees bloom dark pink I am ready to tackle a long-distance trek.

‌Sojourn

Pump up bike tires.

Load pump and patch kit in bike trailer.

Pack food and water.

Rain gear and first aid kit.

Feed George and shut him in the house. The trip to Peakmont is too long and

I will be riding too fast for him to keep up.

Debate taking him along in the trailer but that will slow me down.

Need space to bring back supplies.

Strange leaving Millerville.

Since the evacuation, I haven’t ventured farther than the edge of town.

Since the tornado, I don’t even go that far.

Pedal north along the highway. Exposed and vulnerable.

Four lanes stretch out wide and straight disappearing in a point. A vanishing point.

I hope not for me.

A sign tells me I am thirteen miles from my destination.

Twenty-six round trip.

Farmland lies fallow and untended.

Fields where horses and cattle used to graze are empty. No sign of animals.

Occasionally, I pass a farmhouse. Perfectly normal from a distance but no laundry on the line.

No chickens in the yards.

I think of fresh eggs and milk.

Just my luck to have concert musicians for parents instead of farmers.

I press on. Everything is still.

Except for hawks circling the sky I am the only movement

on the entire landscape.

Pass the Christmas tree farm and the private school

up on the hill to the west.

Debate riding up there

to scavenge in their kitchen. Decide to wait for the ride home

if I have the energy.

Up ahead, finally,

the first buildings of Peakmont. The sun shines high in the sky. Pull over in cottonwood shade.

Snack on almonds, dried apricots, water.

Ride slowly into town watching hoping dreading signs of life.

‌Business District

I park my bike.

Pull one of Dad’s hiking poles out of the bike trailer.

Unscrew and extend until it’s almost four feet long.

The sharp tip clicks on the sidewalk.

If anything threatens

I want to be prepared.

I walk down Central Avenue. Looters were here, too.

Smashed windows and broken merchandise.

Damn.

I should have brought the gun.

I forgot about it over the long winter and now it’s too late.

Personal belongings flattened and discolored

by two winters of snow and mud litter the streets.

Probably dropped or lost

in the evacuation.

For hours I ride through town senses keen and tuned

to humans

but no whiff sight sound taste.

Hardware store on the south side. I smash the glass front door.

Crawl in and out, loading up

with batteries and propane canisters. That alone makes the trip worthwhile.

In the pet aisle, I miss George.

This is the longest we’ve been apart.

I stuff bags of rawhide chews and a squeaky, plush parrot into my backpack.

‌Dogs

Leaving the hardware store I hear a low growl.

I freeze, crouched halfway in halfway out of the door.

A pack of dogs.

Different breeds and sizes including a German shepherd a boxer, and several mutts.

One looks like a wolf, but

there are no wolves in Colorado are there? Could it be a coyote? Several wear collars.

The German shepherd bares his teeth.

Growls. Takes a few steps toward me.

I stay frozen.

My sharp hiking pole is in the bike trailer.

The other dogs advance.

If I move too quickly I will cut myself

on the shards of glass around the broken door.

Even back inside there is nothing

to prevent the dogs

from coming in afier me.

I need an advantage. Buy some time.

On the floor to my lefi is a gumball machine under a wall-mounted fire extinguisher.

On the sales counter

is a display of key rings

a March of Dimes donation jar and a case of beef jerky.

I shifi my weight

to avoid the broken glass.

Pull myself back into the store. Open the case of beef jerky.

Grab fistfuls of dried meat.

The dogs bark, break into a run. I squat back down.

Throw pieces of jerky as far as I can out the door.

The first dog devours one of the pieces.

Sniffs the ground for others. The pack fights over the jerky and I throw out more.

While they are distracted

I grab the fire extinguisher. Pull out the pin.

Squat down again and crawl through the broken door.

Drag the fire extinguisher with me.

The shepherd sees me. Turns aggressively. Growls. I shout and aim the nozzle.

Squeeze the handle as hard as I can.

White foam explodes over fur and teeth.

The dogs yelp and yowl

when the chemical hits their eyes.

The shepherd whimpers and runs off

leading the others away.

I drop the fire extinguisher and sprint to my bike.

Mount as fast as I can and ride

in the opposite direction.

Much harder work now because the trailer is full of supplies

but I pick up speed.

Soon I am out on the highway shifiing and pedaling

with all my strength.

‌Getaway

I ride several miles before

my chest stops pounding and my breathing evens out.

I can’t stop looking back but the dogs are nowhere to be seen.

Afier much time and distance I slow down.

Fall to my hands and knees on the side of the road.

Throw up twice.

Those dogs could have killed me. I am so damned lucky.

They could have found me out in the open with no means of defense.

Even with my hiking pole, I doubt I could have survived a pack

of aggressive, hungry dogs.

I find a fresh bottle of water. Rinse my mouth.

My legs shake so badly

I sink back down and stay on the ground

sipping my water and gathering what’s lefi of my wits.

‌Equus

I pedal south toward Millerville riding to beat the sunset.

The highway unfurls like a striped ribbon.

A dust cloud rises up over the knoll. I coast to a stop on the shoulder.

The ground trembles. Rumbles.

A herd of horses gallops up onto the ridge. They move as one equine body like starlings in a murmuration.

I stand astounded. Afraid.

Amazed.

They veer west and are gone over the hill and into the distance, leaving me straddling my bike in dusty silence.

My fatigued legs find new strength and I giddyup toward home.

‌Deeolotion

(n.) deprivation of companionship; emptiness; sorrow; woe

‌Homebody

Spring wipes

her muddy boots on the mat and settles in to stay.

Everything blooms. Geese migrate north and we migrate

back to Mom’s house.

No more long-distance treks. No more exploring without George.

Staying put. Staying home.

‌Early Morning

reach back toward sleep fleeting images of dream my mother’s face

safety. comfort. images recede chest constricts

arms wrap around ribs

ribs wrap around hollowness ignore grief

hope dream returns

fingers of sunshine stretch over the eastern horizon touch tops of trees squirrels scamper

up slender aspens leap onto roof tumble and chatter across shingles

George shoves open the door and

nudges his nose under my grumpy elbow. “Stop it, George. Go away. I’m sleeping.” He puts his head on the

edge of the bed. Pushes his big square brow against my shoulder and whimpers.

I groan.

“Why do you have to be so pushy?”

He rolls his brown eyes up toward mine. Wags his little tail.

Sigh.

I stand on the back porch in my pajamas.

George explores the yard sniffs around bushes and occasionally lifis his nose to smell the air.

A V of Canada geese flies overhead, honking.

I shade my eyes watch their descent toward the lake.

One at a time they stop flapping their wings until they are gliding

banking in formation

circling below the treetops out of sight.

I remember my dream

the palpable mother connection

I wonder if geese feel connected

in harmony as they fly.

Is the feeling of being connected to another creature a universal feeling across species?

Is that love?

‌Picnic

I need to CHEER UP. Even George thinks so.

I pack a lunch and grab my hiking pole.

At the last minute

I shove the gun in my bag. The next time

I meet a pack of hungry dogs I want a better weapon

than beef jerky.

We walk neighborhoods west of the lake

past the supermarket down the bike path toward the creek.

George alternates between running ahead and

trotting along in step with me.

My heart rate increases. My spirits lifi.

The path leads us away

from neighborhoods until we are walking along

the banks of the creek.

Mature cottonwoods shade the trail.

Damselflies flash

bright blue and iridescent in the dusty sunlight.

A bull snake slides out from under a shrub stretches across the path slinks off into the grasses on the other side.

I make George sit and stay until the snake is gone.

Dad taught me which snakes are dangerous.

I feel lucky whenever one crosses my path.

I miss Dad.

The creek does a sparkle dance.

A robin flits back and forth to her nestlings, mouths open and ravenous.

A great blue heron stands stock still on the far bank, plumed head

poised like a statue, waiting for unsuspecting fish.

Three turtles sun themselves on a partially submerged log.

A dragonfly buzzes

the surface of the pools

in the shallows near the shore.

We bushwhack down to the creek bank.

Exhale a long, deep breath. George arches his back.

Settles down, nose twitching.

We eat our lunch and watch the creek tumble over itself.

I remind George not to drink and pour him some water.

I scratch the spot between

his ears and he closes his eyes rolling over to offer his belly.

I stretch out, lean on him

and watch the clouds wander across the sky.

“What does it all mean, George?” George picks up his head.

I put a piece of grass between my thumbs.

Whistle.

“Is there something I’m supposed to be doing that I’m not? Is it my fault we haven’t been rescued yet?”

‌Really Truly

I am not particularly religious.

Never given much thought

to whether God exists let alone whether God pays any attention to my little life.

Lying on my back

in this beautiful place surrounded by

so many wild birds and animals I’m trying to really truly understand

how alone we are.

This day.

Like a million other days I lived Before Evacuation.

Like any minute a cyclist will come riding around the bend.

Or a pair of runners will jog right on by.

The animals around me are living their lives

just as they always have. Nothing has changed for them.

Do I look as natural to them as they do to me?

We’re all just trying to survive. Does that make me wild?

Can one lone girl be a civilization all by herself?

Two whole years and

I haven’t seen another person since the looters lefi town.

Is there really no other human being for hundreds of miles?

Or thousands?

How long can this last?

What would I be doing right now at this very moment

if the evacuation

had never happened?

a freshman in high school maybe taking honors classes studying for final exams

shopping for a dress to wear to a dance kissing someone for the first time maybe

or

playing on the soccer team scoring the winning goal state championship match

being lified onto teammates’ shoulders paraded across the pitch in victory

my whole family cheering jumping with pride.

I reach into my pocket. My brother’s book report.

“But there’s another thing that makes her the Challenge Girl. She has to be alone on the island for 18 years!!!”

Eighteen. Years. E.I.G.H.T.E.E.N. Y.E.A.R.S.

Am I capable

of surviving alone for eighteen years?

Trevor would be out of high school by then. The twins would be in their twenties.

I would be thirty!

Even if

our food and supplies could last that long

is it possible

so much time could pass

before people return?

possible? maybe. conceivable? no.

Surely the government wouldn’t need that much time

to address whatever imminent threat

caused the evacuation.

George is at least six or seven. How long do rottweilers live?

The thought of life without him

is unfathomable.