From habit, I hit the light switch, but it doesn’t come on. Briefly, I wonder how I’ll back a car out of the garage without electricity to roll up the garage door. I’ll figure it out later.

We have two cars—Mom’s white hybrid sedan on the right, and Paul’s maroon SUV on the left. I squeeze around the front bumper and open the driver’s side door to the hybrid. The dome light flashes on, and I breathe relief, so glad for this tiny bit of normalcy. I climb in, slide the seat back to make room for my long legs, then depress the start button halfway—enough to engage the battery but not start the engine.

Music fills the garage, and it’s so startling, so wonderful, to have a human voice in my ears that I freeze and listen. It’s Guns N’ Roses, my mom’s favorite CD. I hate this song. Still, I close my eyes and lean back, letting the music wash over me.

I barely stifle a scream when Emmaline leaps over me into the passenger seat. She circles three times before sitting down.

“You scared me, girl.”

Her tail thumps twice.

I sigh, realizing I’m putting off the inevitable. My fingers tremble as I lean toward the sound system in the dash.

“Here goes, Emmaline.” I push the button to switch to radio.

Static.

I press the seek button; the radio’s digital readout blurs as it whips through the frequencies. I hold my breath as it starts over at the bottom, works its way up, passes the frequency where it began.

Still nothing.

My disappointment is so sharp it hurts. I try to think about what this means. The radio seems to be working fine. So none of the stations are broadcasting. The power outage must be regional. What’s the range of this radio? Miles. Maybe a hundred. Whenever we take a road trip, we’re halfway to Cincinnati before our local stations fade out.

It feels like someone is standing on my chest. No radio stations broadcasting for a hundred-mile radius. Surely some of the stations have generators. But they’re still not broadcasting. That means whatever happened is bad. Epically bad.

I flip the dial from FM to AM, not because I’m hopeful but because it’s something to do. I hit pay dirt.

A man’s voice fills the car, the first live voice I’ve heard since I woke up. He has a thick Clevelander accent. I start forward in the seat, hanging on every word.

“. . . martial law per the Ohio Constitution. The CDC reports that the virus is airborne, with a mortality rate of 100 percent. Therefore, for your own safety, do not leave your homes under any circumstances. Anyone violating this order will be shot on sight. Anyone operating a vehicle will be shot on sight and their vehicle impounded. Roads must remain clear for military personnel.”