“Let’s find a place with lots of trees. And houses close together. A place easy to disappear in.”

By silent mutual agreement, we creep back into the aisle, toward the swinging doors.

“What about the dead bodies? Maybe we should go somewhere rural.”

He pushes the doors open and lets me go first. “It’s a myth that dead bodies pose health risks,” he says.

“Really?”

“Really. Unless they’re diseased, of course. But I’m immune, and you’ve already been sick, so we’re perfectly safe.”

Back in the break room, Trey flips on the Camp Lamp. “But I heard a radio message,” I say. “It warned about burying or burning bodies.”

He nods. “That was when everyone still hoped we could avoid the apocalypse. Corpses can be disease vectors, and Ohio has a high water table. But it doesn’t matter now that everyone is already dead.”

I can’t help the huge grin forming, which is weird because we’re talking about corpses and death and the end of the world, but I guess a lot of things have changed lately. “In that case, I say we find a giant mansion. Something with amazing furniture. We’ll live like the one percent.”

He grins right back. “It should have a fireplace. A fully stocked pantry.”

“I want a wine cellar. I don’t even like wine, but I want a wine cellar.”

“A workout room!” he says.

“A regulation height basketball hoop!” I say.

“A lawn for crochet!”

“You mean croquet?”

“Whatever. And cornhole!”

“And no dead bodies.”

Our grins die. It might be a tall order, to find a grand mansion empty of bodies.

“Tomorrow,” he says.

“Tomorrow,” I agree.

Neither of us mentions how dangerous it might be to travel anywhere. But I made it from Hazel Jenkins’s house to the pharmacy without incident, so it’s possible, right?

March 19

IT’S SEVEN THIRTY A.M., ACCORDING TO THE WALL CLOCK IN THE employee break room. Trey and I stare at the door. Light from outside shines around the doorframe. No wonder it got so cold last night; the door doesn’t seal well.

“Maybe going out in broad daylight is a bad idea,” Trey says. “Maybe we should wait until dark.”

“So the Orkin aliens can’t see us?”

He shrugs.

“Cats can see in the dark just fine,” I point out. “Something from another planet might have a totally different visual range than humans.”

“That’s depressing. Maybe the Orkins don’t see at all. Maybe they use some kind of sonar, like bats.”

“Now that is depressing.” It means finding the mansion of our dreams with good cover might be a totally worthless goal.

“We know nothing about them,” he continues. “We don’t even know how to protect ourselves. Or hide.”