It’s dark and cold when I wake. I reach for the lamp on the end table and pull the cord, but nothing happens. I stumble past the coffee table to the living room window and peer outside, looking for any sign of light or life, but it’s darker than dark. My neighborhood is old, and most of the utilities are still above ground, so we have a power outage or two every year when thunderstorms blow through. But even then, there’s always some light remaining: candlelight in windows or a glow in the distance, indicating the high-rises of downtown Columbus.

But not tonight. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was out in the country, miles from the nearest human.

I head toward the “emergency drawer” in the kitchen, trying not to consider that maybe I am miles away from the nearest living human. Emmaline limps beside me, her nails clicking on the floor. Maybe I can scrounge up enough light to tend to her lacerated paws.

Inside the drawer, I find a flashlight, a crank lantern, matches, and several candles. I turn on the lantern first, glad it’s still holding a charge from the last outage—I’m not sure I’d have the stamina to crank it now. By its glow, I find the Neosporin in the downstairs medicine cabinet. Then I light three candles and set them on the kitchen counter near the sink. After indulging in another glass of water, I grab a dish towel, soak it with ice-cold water, and then rub it over Emmaline’s coat. She quivers, ecstatic with the attention.

The smell is worse at first, as the water softens the dried poop stuck in her fur, but I keep at it. What I really need to do is take her upstairs and put her in the tub, but I can’t go up there. Not yet. Instead, I rub and rub, rinsing the towel several times, until I can’t smell poop anymore.

I grab a clean towel and the crank lantern and sit down on the floor, pulling the dog backward into my lap so that her legs splay out in four different directions. I examine each paw. Three of them have cuts, but the cuts look clean. Light glints off a large bit of glass still embedded in her right forepaw. Before I can feel squeamish, I grasp it between thumb and forefinger and yank it out. She yelps, and blood wells up after it. I wrap her paw in the towel and press down to stem the flow, talking the whole time. “You’re such a good, brave girl, Emmaline. And you’re going to feel so much better after this, I promise.”

Her feathery tail thumps against my thigh.