March 16

IT’S TIME TO GO OUTSIDE.

In spite of our early spring, it’s still winter cold at night. But I need to be able to move quickly and easily, so I forgo my heavy coat in favor of thick knee-high socks under black sweats, two long-sleeved T-shirts, and over everything a tunic-length hoodie. The hoodie is deep purple instead of black, but maybe it won’t matter in the dark. I tie Paul’s black scarf around my neck—ready to pull it up over my nose like a mask if I have to—and slip on my mom’s leather driving gloves.

The gloves are too small for my long fingers, so I pull them off and grab the kitchen scissors to slice off the fingertips. I try them again, flexing my hands. Perfect.

I gather my hair into a ponytail at the base of my neck, noting that it’s greasy again and will require another horrifically cold shower soon. I check to make sure I have everything I need—my Mini Maglite, house key, pepper spray.

Emmaline dances circles around me as I get ready, rapturous at the prospect of going for a walk. But I tell her to stay in the firmest tone I can muster, and she drops to her belly, rests her chin on her paws, and gazes up at me with such a look of wide-eyed despair that I almost give in.

“I’ll be back, Emmy. I promise.” And I leave her whimpering in the entryway as I head out into the night.

The moon is full, which lights my way but also makes me uncomfortably visible. I stand in the walkway a moment, listening. The dark shapes of sleeping crows huddle in the grass, line the branches of our winter-bare redbud tree, shift on the rooftops of nearby cars.

I start forward on soft feet, alert for any sight or sound, any change in the air. The night is ice-cold; I should fire up the woodstove when I return. Good thing this happened at the tail end of winter, or I’d have to add firewood to my list of things I’ll run out of if I don’t find help soon.

The sidewalk is bright, almost shimmering, in the moonlight. I move to the middle of the street where my clothes blend in better with the dark asphalt. I pass Mrs. Carby’s house, then the Douglases’ yellow Craftsman and its solar walkway lights. My footfalls seem too loud, my breath too fast, as I study each window, looking for a glint of candlelight or a shadow of movement.