I park the car and get out for a better look. I’m not sure what pulls me toward them, but I have to know. I have to see.

The skeletons grin at me as I approach. The smaller one is clothed in a pink cotton dress that perfectly matches the explosion of pink peonies bordering the porch. Leg bones descend into gray orthopedic shoes. The larger skeleton still wears a straw hat, though it’s a bit askew. Strings of drying flesh hang from one sharp cheekbone, as if the hat provided some protection from the relentless crows. The two are indeed holding hands, their spindly bone-fingers intertwined.

Like Mom and Paul, these two died together, taking what comfort they could.

Did everyone just lie down and die? Was everyone so accepting of their fate? I can’t imagine it. If I knew the end was inevitable, I would want to live, raging and wild and free, until my very last moment.

But I would also want to be with the people I loved. Maybe that’s the trade-off. Maybe dying gently means soaking up every last bit of love.

Emmaline pads forward and thoroughly snuffles the pant leg of the larger skeleton. I click my tongue at her, heading toward the front door, because I’m worried she’ll raise a leg and pee on it. Or is that something only male dogs do? I should find a book about dogs.

She follows me happily, but when I clutch the ice-cold doorknob, I hesitate.

I’m hoping the couple outside was older. Retired, maybe. I’m hoping they didn’t have any children living at home, and that, since they died outside, their house is unlocked and free of dead bodies.

But it’s still someone else’s home. It feels deeply wrong to walk right in.

Wind kicks up, bringing the scent of carrion along with a wintry chill. It’s going to snow tonight; I’m sure of it. I don’t have anything to wear but the clothes on my back. I have to go inside.

I release the handle and knock on the door instead, three sharp raps that seem to fill the whole neighborhood with uninvited, echoing sound.

No answer. Of course there is no answer.

I try one more time; it’s the right thing to do. I hear footsteps, and my heartbeat notches up a gear. But no, it was just wind whipping a nearby maple branch against the roof.

Somehow, that tiny sliver of dashed hope is the most devastating thing. Tears fill my eyes and I wrench open the door.

I gag on the scent of rotten fruit, but recover quickly because rotting fruit has got nothing on rotting human flesh. I can sniff rotting fruit all day. Inhaling defiantly, I step inside.