Lots of trash back here. Whether it was blown in by the wind or left over from looting I can’t tell. The area behind the pharmacy is wide. Big enough for semitrucks. A concrete loading ramp leads down to a roll-up cargo door. Beside it is a smaller, employee door.

The door is ajar.

Hope wars with alarm. There are intact supplies inside that pharmacy; I saw them from the window. There might be food for Emmaline. Bottled water. Tampons. And sweet, holy god, I could use a candy bar or some caffeine.

But there was that boot print. And a missing gun. Reluctantly, I step forward.

Footsteps echo behind me. I whirl.

A young Black man strides toward me. He’s tall, even taller than me. A long duster whips at his heels, and he holds the missing gun in his gloved hands. It’s an automatic rifle; a gigantic M-something-or-other about four feet long, but this guy wields it like it’s a matchstick.

Emmaline moves to stand in front of me. She doesn’t growl, but her hackles rise, and she drops her head the same way that wild dog did right before it charged me. My grip on the tire iron tightens. Can I really swing it at another human being if I have to?

He freezes when he sees my dog. We stare at each other. His gaze narrows as he takes in details about my hair, my clothes, my dog. I’m taking in details too; he’s frowning slightly, and dirt mars his left cheek. His hand on the rifle slides toward the trigger.

I should run for it. I learned in my self-defense class that it’s almost impossible to hit a moving target, even with an automatic weapon. Maybe I can get inside and slam the door shut before he starts shooting.

And then he lowers his gun.

Suddenly, without thinking at all, I’m dropping my tire iron and running toward him and he’s running toward me and tears are streaming down my face and his arms engulf me and his gun pokes my back and my hands are clutching his shoulders and he lifts me up and swings me around muttering, “Oh, thank god, thank god, thank god.”

I don’t know how long we’re like that, me burrowing into this stranger’s neck, him pressing his cheek to my greasy hair. Finally, we separate. He holds me at arm’s length, breathing hard, staring at me like I’m the most precious thing in the world.

“Hi,” he says, releasing me at last, grinning the most beautiful grin I’ve ever seen in my life.

I laugh-choke-cry: “Hi.”

Emmaline stands on her hind legs, paws against his thigh, and licks his hand.

His face sobers. “We need to get inside. It’s not safe out here.”