We had one sack of rice left but no spare water for cooking. Still, we were not doomed yet: I stayed warm, nights; Nat found a car battery three blocks west; the wind stopped; Joe locked eyes when we talked, and his eyes were still brown and kinetic like root beer. Curt wasn’t sustaining as well; he reported rooftop every hour to check his bucket for raindrops. I remonstrated with Eugenia against pissing in it, and she agreed. We sat fireside in dark office space. I thought of my dog. Then one morning, a sound woke me. A shimmer that I could hear: chickadees? It was Dolly Parton, sitting in a found fiddleback chair in the middle of the road two miles north. Her voice opened like puffs of smoke. I shambled to a window, where I descried blond, smiling hair. I noticed that the others, who hadn’t slept comfortably since the war, were gone. Gone, except for Joe. I found Joe sitting against the south wall. His eyes were still electric but now refused mine. "That my momma made for me..."
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