Instead of looking for Mrs. Carby, I head straight for the phone, which hangs on the wall beside the refrigerator. On the counter beneath the phone is a cookie jar and Mrs. Carby’s brown leather purse. “Handbag,” she always called it.

How many times have Ryan and I eaten cookies here, surrounded by stupid porcelain roosters, served with stupid rooster napkins? How many times have we pretended interest while Mrs. Carby waxed on about plans for her flower garden? The new trick Emmaline had learned at puppy school? I’d give anything to do it again.

I take a deep breath and lift the phone from the receiver and put it to my ear.

Nothing.

My knees give way and I crumple to the ground. Emmaline whines in my ear, bleeds all over my hoodie, but I hardly notice because my sadness cup is finally overflowing. Sobs wrack my body and snot drips from my nose. I keen, wild and high, as if the noise can push the pain out of my chest, and though I can’t seem to form the words, the sound coming from the back of my throat means alone, alone, alone, alone, alone.

Emmaline barks as I sense a shadow near my shoulder. I whip my head around. A big black bird has hopped up onto the counter. He looks at me sideways, raising and lowering his head like a buoy in stormy waters. A funny feeling twinges in my chest. It’s like he’s sizing me up for meal potential.

Several others fly in through the open window and alight on the floor. Emmaline launches toward them, yipping wildly.

“Emmaline! Come back!” I yell, fearful of what will happen if she runs through broken glass a third time.

She twists midair and dashes back toward me.

“Good girl,” I say, patting her head. I clamber to my feet, and I’m about to shoo the crow off of the counter but he flutters off without being prompted and half flies, half hops down the hallway toward the bedroom.

“Oh,” I whisper, knowing he follows the scent of carrion.

I stand here in Mrs. Carby’s kitchen for a moment, wiping my dripping nose, wondering what to do, but all I can think is, Home. I want to go home. The prospect of being in the same house with the bodies of my family fills me with sick dread, but I don’t know what else to do, where else to go.

Food. I still need food. And water. I shouldn’t have survived so long without. Mom obviously nursed me for a while. She probably saved my life by hooking me up to that IV before she got sick herself. Whatever happened, I shouldn’t be alive, and I’m not going to stay that way unless I take care of myself.