Another wave of dizziness hits as I go down the stairs, but I ignore it. I pass the kitchen, promising myself that if the saltines and banana stay down, I’ll treat myself to some protein, then I grab my coat from the rack and swing it on.

I pause at the door. The back of my neck prickles, and my feet plant themselves stubbornly. Are you a doer? Or a don’t-er? Shawntelle would say. I put a trembling hand to the knob and push the door open.

A rush of cold air greets me as I step into sunshine. Shivering, I shut the door behind me and start down the walkway, holding my pepper spray at the ready position. Crows peck at our lawn. They hop away as I pass, eyeing me warily. I wish they seemed more frightened, less bloated and satiated.

The street is silent and empty, save for the flapping of wings and the cawing of birds. It feels like they’re watching me. The air buzzes with mosquitoes. No, they’re tiny flies. Clouds of them hover around the mix of 1920s and 1940s homes that make up my neighborhood.

Cars sit parked on the street or in their drives, but there’s no traffic. Usually by now some of the neighbors are getting home from work, kids are out on their bikes, someone is walking a dog. I glance to my right, expecting to find old Mrs. Carby tending her daffodil beds, her little sheltie, Emmaline, running circles around her ankles. We’ve had an early spring, and she never misses a day out with Emmaline. But her yard is as silent as everyone else’s.

Mrs. Carby! She’s one of the few people on the street who still has a landline.

I flip my hood up over my still-damp hair and I start to shove my hands into my coat pockets, but I decide I’d rather keep the pepper spray handy. I cross the grass toward her house, scattering crows in my wake.

Mrs. Carby’s home is a neat one story with brick trim, yellow shutters, and a wheelchair ramp—for her husband until he passed two years ago. By the time I reach the top of the ramp, my legs quiver like jelly. Rather than protein and water, what I probably need is another IV.

I press the doorbell, which rings out an awful rendition of “Some Enchanted Evening.” Emmaline barks, and the barking comes closer and closer until her nails clatter on the entryway tile, and then she’s scritch-scritch-scritching at the door and whining her little head off.

“Hi, Emmaline,” I say through the door, my words muffled by my face mask. “Is your mom home?” Please be home. Please. My brain flashes to a vision of dead bodies in beds, but I pull a mental curtain down over it and stare fixedly at Mrs. Carby’s door panels.

Scritch scritch scritch.