I sit on top of the toilet lid in the downstairs bathroom and peel off my court trainers and socks. The skin of my heel is partly shredded and badly bruised around one large, deep puncture. My big toe is bright purple from when I kicked Mrs. Carby’s door. Between the dog bite and the kicking, I’m very lucky that nothing seems broken. If I’d been wearing boots, I might have escaped nearly unscathed. I vow to never again leave the house without my Doc Martens.

Emmaline sniffs the discarded shoe and whines, no doubt scenting the other dog.

Was it rabid? It didn’t seem frothy or crazed. Just feral. Still, a dog bite can be bad news. Cleaning it is going to hurt.

As I soap up a damp washcloth, I wonder: how long does it take for friendly house pets to go feral? The world has been dead less than six days. I think of Emmaline, darting through broken glass toward a familiar face, someone she knows can feed her.

How many pets didn’t make it? How many are trapped inside their homes, starving to death, without even the opportunity to turn feral?

We living creatures get desperate fast. I’m bound to encounter more. Dogs. Maybe people. How am I supposed to handle feral people?

Wincing, I scrub at my heel, paying particular attention to the raw bits. In one spot near the arch of my foot, the skin peels back, revealing the meaty redness of what might be muscle. But if the dog bit all the way down to muscle, wouldn’t it bleed more? I start to peer closer but find that I can’t bear to. I wish my mom could help me. She would know at a glance what needed to be done.

Muscle or not, Mom would say I need to sterilize it.

I rummage under the sink and find a bottle of rubbing alcohol. I pour some onto the washcloth and press it against my torn flesh. It burns, oh, god, it burns. My breath hisses through clenched teeth, and sweat breaks out on my neck.

I should rub it into the wound. But I don’t think I can bear to feel my own flesh separate from my body.

Before I can think about it a moment more, I lift my leg over the sink and upend the bottle, pouring its contents all over my foot.

I scream. Black spots dance in my vision.

I toss the empty bottle into the garbage and bend over my knee, panting, waiting for the pain to fade, but it doesn’t. I knock everything off the counter in my hurry to fill the rinse cup with water and pour it over my heel and arch. That helps. It’s blessedly cool. I can breathe again.

I plaster a wad of cotton gauze with Neosporin and wrap it against the wound with an Ace bandage.