“Marta, I’m trapped in here. They said there would be riots, so I sent everyone home early and closed the place up myself. I tried to call, but the phones are out. Then the tornado sirens went off, and a big military jeep pulled up and now I can’t leave. You must be worried sick. Sick. Ha. I’m sick now, too. I’ll be dead in 2–3 days. I won’t wait to die, Marta. I’m just going to do it. Get it over with. I know you won’t get this note. I’m writing it to make myself feel better. But in case you do, I love you.

“That’s it. That’s all there is.”

Trey says nothing as I reach down and grab the wallet. It’s open to a picture of a smiling, middle-aged Latina. Lines crinkle her eyes, and she has a large beauty mark above her right lip. He was looking at her picture when he died.

“This store is intact because of him,” Trey finally says. “We have all the food and supplies we need because this man closed down before the looting started.”

Next to the woman’s picture is the dead man’s driver’s license. I slide it out. Barry Stockton, born in 1977, brown hair, brown eyes, five-foot-eleven, 220 pounds. I shove it into my pocket.

I take a deep breath, which is a mistake because Barry Stockton smells like rotting meat soaked in fermented fruit juice. I make a hard, cold fist of my stomach, of my soul, as I reach down for the gun. His fingers are cool and dry—not like skin at all—as I pry them from the grip. I’m careful to point the barrel away in case it’s still loaded.

His forefinger is stubborn, curled around the trigger. If I push the wrong way or let the finger slip, the gun could go off again. Maybe letting the gun fire isn’t the worst thing that could happen, so long as it’s pointing away. I’m about to warn Trey when I notice a mote of red on the side of the gun behind the barrel. Beneath it is a tiny lever. On a hunch, I flip the lever up so it covers the red mote.

It’s the gun’s safety; I’m almost certain. Even so, doesn’t hurt to be careful. The man’s yellowish fingernail digs into my flesh as I push it off the trigger. Something in his hand pops, but I keep pushing, gently, slowly, until the finger is through the trigger guard and the gun comes free.

“Got it!” I say, turning to share my triumph with Trey, but he has disappeared.