I don’t know, and I won’t ever find out. I have to keep my focus on the solution, as Granddad would say. Figure it out, kid. That’s all we can do.

So I walk until I find the small convenience store. The windows are boarded up. I don’t look around me to see if anyone’s on the main street. I dash toward the door, which swings on its hinges. A bell jingles when I push forward. Get in. To safety.

Run.

This is what would help Emerson: better painkillers. This is what would help all of us: food, whatever I can carry. Whatever is left.

The shelves of the store are almost empty. Some of them have toppled over to make a mess in the aisles. There is no toilet paper and not a lot of food left. Bottles of juice and beer have shattered on the floor, making a sticky, disgusting mess. The built-in coolers are open and empty. The little produce that’s here has rotted through and probably attracted pests, but I try to ignore that and go aisle by aisle to figure out what I need.

I stuff pads and Band-Aids and a few bottles of painkillers in my pockets. A small bottle of hand sanitizer that’s been opened and used, but it isn’t entirely empty yet. I wish stores carried the antibiotics Casey told us about, the ones that could maybe help with the plague, but I wouldn’t even know what to look for.

I swing the backpack off my shoulder and shove in all the over-the-counter drugs I can find. I move to another aisle and add anything that seems useful, in the small quantities that are still here. Shampoo and soap bars. Toothpaste in small traveling packs. A single box of cereal, half-open—but it’s still food. A jar of peanut butter. I stand on tiptoe and tease a chocolate bar from the farthest edges of the shelf and a granola bar as well. Herbs and spices that no one wanted to take, for whatever reason. A spilled bag of rice. I scoop up what I can and seal it into the bag.

And then I see it. Underneath a toppled over shelf, all rolled into a corner out of sight, almost a dozen cans of food. Some of them are busted open, but most look salvageable.

I cling to my backpack and drop to my knees.

I reach for them, and I nearly sob in relief when my fingers manage to curl around the cans. This may not keep us fed for weeks, but I have canned meat and vegetables. It will help us restock what we’ve already eaten.

I push all the cans into my backpack until it’s so full, it might burst at the seams, and something to my right crunches.

A soft click. The unmistakable sound of the safety being disengaged on a gun.

I slowly turn my head and stare right down the barrel. A bulky man wearing a face mask over his nose and mouth glares at me. His bushy eyebrows have almost grown together, and underneath his blue cap, his hair is peaky blond. He wears a stained fleece shirt. “Looks like I’ve caught myself a rat. Hands where I can see them. Do not come any closer. Tell me exactly who you are and what you’re doing here.”