I look down at the gun in my hand. My heart races, just to feel its weight. So much power in something so tiny. “9mm” is engraved on the barrel. I have no idea what that means. Something about the ammunition, I guess. At the top of the barrel is a narrow silver piece about an inch long that says, “Loaded when up.” It’s up.

Behind the trigger are buttons, one on each side. I push them, and the magazine slides out and clatters to the ground before I can catch it. The gun is instantly lighter, and I feel approximately seven gazillion times better knowing I’m holding an empty gun.

If I’m going to use this thing, I’ll need to practice. Figure out how to use it safely. Figure out how to not be afraid of it.

Footsteps come up behind me. It’s Trey, carrying a large ivory blanket. “Found it in the home goods section,” he says. He pauses a moment, a muscle in his jaw twitching. He closes his eyes and steps forward, blindly flipping the blanket over the body. His shoulders relax the moment the body is covered.

Together, we stare at the lump on the floor. The edges of the blanket already soak up moisture.

“Thanks for the gun, Mr. Stockton,” I say.

“And the food,” Trey adds.

I shove the gun in one pocket, the magazine in the other. “I need to wash my hands,” I say.

Trey nods. “Restrooms are by the meat counter. I’ll watch your back. Then we’ll finish up.”

I turn to grab my cart.

“Paige?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re pretty brave.”

I smile thinly. “Thanks.”

I drive us from the parking lot while Trey keeps watch out the windows. Emmaline sits in his lap, just as intent on the outside world as he is. The SUV is full to bursting with every dry good we could possibly need. The hole we put in the front window of the store is now sealed with plastic and duct tape. Hopefully, it will keep flies and birds and maybe even aliens away from our supply source.

“So, where are we going?” I ask.

He cranes his neck for a better view of the sky. “What about Victorian Village? Or the Short North? The houses are close together. Lots of trees.”

I turn right onto Fishinger Road. “I do like the idea of being near the hospital. Lots of medical supplies.”

“They might have power,” he agrees. “Hospitals have generators. Maybe we could take hot showers.”

“Sold.” I’m a walking grease bucket. Also, if anyone is left alive, they’ll probably be at the hospital. “Let’s go there first, then look for a house.”

“We could just live in the hospital,” he says. “If there’s power, I mean.”