“Mom,” I whisper. “Momma.” But then I step back and close the door, finding my first comfort of the day, because at least they died together. I know it’s weird as soon as I think it, but I cling to the comfort anyway. Like it’s a lifeline. Like I might burst apart if I let go.

Gripping the oak bannister, I make my way down the stairs. Every movement is a little easier now, as my body remembers to pump blood and oxygenate my muscles. When I reach the kitchen, I glance around for Mom’s cell phone. I find it next to the toaster and grab it. Though it’s plugged in, the battery indicator is red. I dial 9-1-1 and hold the phone to my ear.

Nothing happens. Not a ringing sound, not a dial tone, not even a “please try your call again.”

I hang up and try again anyway. Still nothing.

My own phone is in my backpack in the entryway, where I dropped it after practice. Maybe it has some charge left. I stumble past the dining room toward the front door, and I ignore the squeeze in my heart as I kick Ryan’s Reeboks aside to grab my pack. I reach into the side pocket and pull out my phone, and breathe a sigh of relief to see the screen flash on. But the battery icon is red—I may only have a few seconds.

I dial 9-1-1 again.

Nothing. I peer at the screen. No voicemail or text notifications either.

When was the last time I went even a day without getting a text from Shawntelle? I can’t remember.

I look closer. Zero bars. A base station must be down. Must have been down awhile for me to not have a single notification from my best friend or my coach or anyone else on my team.

I dock the phone in the charger, but the charging symbol does not come on. I flick the light switch beside the outlet, but the light does not come on. Panic finds its way back inside me as I whip open the refrigerator door.

The smell of rotten vegetables hits my face, and I gag, slamming the door shut.

The electricity has been out for days.

I need to find help. Someone. Anyone. I need a friendly face or a friendly voice more than anything in the world. I’m starting toward the front door again when a wave of dizziness makes me grasp for the counter.

You need more water, Paige. And food.