I fold the map and put it back in my pocket. I’ve entered houses like this before, so I know the way, but I hate it. No one in their right minds would enter a plague house. I breathe in deeply and grab my mask, and I circle around the house. I find my way in through the kitchen window…

And enter a house that doesn’t reek of death. Not yet.

Instead, it looks clean. Pots and pans hang from a rack above the counter, and the kitchen spoons and utensils peek out of a colorful ceramic jar. I’m not entirely sure what it’s meant to portray, but it looks like a child’s school project. A kitchen towel with lace and flowers hangs from one of the cabinet doors.

I ball my hands into fists and push my fists into my pockets. My instincts tell me to run and not look back. To raid the fridge and the kitchen cabinets and leave the rations card. There may be enough to keep us going for another two days, and who knows what the world will look like then.

I shake my head. The world will still look the same in two days. Lonely and hungry. And the next rations delivery won’t be for another month. I tenderly walk toward the living room. The house is quiet. Quieter than I would like it. It makes me feel like everything around me is holding its breath and the walls themselves have eyes.

Then the floorboards creak.

“What are you doing here?” a voice rasps from directly behind me.

I want to spin around, but a stabbing sensation in my back prevents me.

“Answer me, girl.”

I slowly raise my hands—and all my words flee.

“Are you ignorant, or do you have a death wish? Is that why you entered a plague house?” the person continues. The voice is so raw and croaking that it’s impossible to tell anything about the person speaking.

“May I turn around?” I ask, with my hands still high.

After some hesitation, the stabbing sensation disappears. I take that as agreement and ever so slowly spin to face the inhabitant of the house. I keep my hands visible and make no sudden movements. And my breath catches in my throat.

In front of me stands an elderly woman, probably in her early eighties. She has long, silver hair and cold, blue eyes. Red blotches mar her face, and she has blood splatters on her blue woolen cardigan. Her hands are frail and her posture unsteady.

I take a step back right when she starts coughing, and my heart sinks.

“Speak up, girl,” she says, when she’s regained her breath. “Do I need to call the police?”

I laugh. I can’t help it. I’m terrified and tired, and this is absurd. Are there even police officers anymore? “My name is Grace,” I say. “I live at the Hope Juvenile Treatment Center, and we’re hungry.”

The woman lets the kitchen knife she’s holding drop an inch or so. “Yes, and?”