There were sounds drifting up from the first floor . . . The television. “Ding! Boink! Ooh, I hate meeces to pieces!” Chris smiled. At least he knew Del was all right. The cartoons grew more distinct as he descended the stairs and turned into the parlor. “Hey, Cap, how’re you . . . doing?”

The children around the television whirled and stared at him like frightened bunnies. These were smaller tykes, tousle-haired and wide-eyed, many still dressed in their pajamas. There were eight of them that he could see. A few he recognized from the day before at the basements, but . . .

The basements. Bart had died there last night, hadn’t he? That much he remembered. Had both places been broken into? Were these all that survived? They huddled close as they silently appraised him, and he could see uncertainty in their eyes. Even fear. But then the children saw the tabby stretched languidly across his shoulders and their apprehension was forgotten. They approached, smiling and cooing at the feline, and he had to kneel so they could reach it. The cat, on the other hand, showed its opinion of the throng by sinking its claws into his shoulder. Stiles quickly got the message. He stood to end the petting session and save his deltoid, and the children reluctantly returned to the cartoon.

“I see you’ve already met.” Billie came through the dining room, her arms lined with plates as only a true waitress could manage. “Who wants peanut butter and jelly?” She dealt the plates onto the coffee table with the dexterity of a cardshark, much to the children’s delight. They grabbed up the sandwiches as Billie brushed up close to Stiles and pecked him on the lips. “You’re looking better,” she said.

“How can you tell?”

“It’s in your eyes.” She scratched the purring orange head that peeked around his neck. “Who’s your friend?”

“Just someone I woke up with.” He reached out to touch her swollen cheek and split lip, the bandage on her neck, the shoulder where she was burned. “How are you doing?”

“Mrs. Miller?” interrupted the smallest girl, “Billy took the last pena-butter sandwich. Are there any more?”

“Sure, hon,” Billie said, heading for the kitchen. She glanced back over her shoulder at Stiles. “Cup of coffee, sailor?”

He followed her through the dining room and into the kitchen, which she had straightened a great deal after Bean’s altercation last night. She pulled a bowl from the dish drainer and filled it with milk, then took the cat from his shoulder and sat them together on the floor. “There’s a pot of coffee on the stove,” she said over her shoulder as she raided the peanut butter again, then pushed a half-full cup across the counter. “Warm mine up a bit, okay?”

“Those kids,” he said as he poured. “They’re not the only ones left, are they?”