My water supply is probably intact. Especially if I’m the only one left alive in my neighborhood. What a strange quandary. If I’m alone, my water could last forever. If I’m not, the water tower will empty, and the new water coming from the purification plant could poison me.

I had better start boiling my water. Just in case.

A few years ago, Paul insisted that Ryan and I learn about the woodstove—how to fire it up, how to hit maximum temperature at a slow burn, how to clean it, how to do it all safely. We complained the whole time. But now I glance toward the stairs and whisper, “Thanks, Paul.”

I rummage through the cupboard by the stove and come up with two large pots, which I fill with water from the tap and set on top of the woodstove. I get a fire going inside and shut the doors. Watching the warm glow through the glass flashes me back to Christmas morning, to evergreen garlands and red velvet stockings and our fake tree with its tiny white lights. I swallow hard, remembering how Ryan had presented me with a pair of Nike Air court trainers. He was so excited for me to open my gift. He saved up all year to buy them.

It takes a long time for water to go from ice-cold to hard boil. I turn my back on the stove, grab the pepper spray, and head out the back door, whistling for Emmaline to follow. I have no desire to go outdoors again so soon, but doing something—anything—is better than being sad.

Our backyard is fenced, so we’re unlikely to be attacked by the feral dog that took a bite out of my foot. Also, I’m hoping the face full of pepper spray will make him think twice. Still, I study every part of the yard—the winter-brown lawn, the border of daffodils, the small redbud tree in the back corner that could burst with hot pink any day. Except for the crows lining the fence and the stench, it seems like a normal, beautiful spring day.

In the garden shed, I find our extension ladder. It’s heavier than I remember and awkward as hell. I bang the wall three times maneuvering it out the wide door. I extend the ladder and lean it against the house, which sends a bunch of crows who’d been sitting in Ryan’s windowsill flapping away. I pause for breath, then I start to climb.

Paul would kill me if he saw me using the extension ladder without a partner to hold the bottom steady. Sorry, Paul. I pull myself resolutely upward. Emmaline whines at me from below.