Pulling off my mask, I hung it on a hook by the stove. Mr. Perry, our principal, said as long as the wind kept blowing radiation away from us, we only needed our masks outside. Muncie’s mother made Muncie wear her mask all the time.

“Gran?” I called again, looking through the doorway to her room. Her radio played softly. Since the accident, her radio played all the time as we listened for reports.

Usually Gran had a snack waiting for me. She’d keep me company while I ate, before we started afternoon chores.

Caleb would doze on the hearth, resting up from morning. Bayley, my black-and-white cat, would curl on the chair nearest the stove. They were all missing.

“Caleb! Bayley! Gran!” I called, thinking about the curtain drawn in the back bedroom, trying to keep the worry out of my voice.

I opened the refrigerator; found half a pot of greasy, cold soup. I wasn’t eating that.

“Gran! Caleb!”

I heard movement in the hallway. Soft movement. Something coming my way from the back bedroom.

Caleb appeared, prancing into the kitchen. His nails clicked as he hit the linoleum. He came around the table and stuck his nose into my palm, snuffling me.

“Where have you been, boy?” I asked. “What’s going on down there?”

Placing his paws on my thigh, he thrust his head forward.

“You want some scratching?”

He leaned against me, tail high and wagging. But when I stopped, Caleb got down and pranced back toward the hall again. His feathery tail wagged behind him until he disappeared.

“Gran?” I called.

Part of me wanted to march down that hall after Caleb, but I stayed in the kitchen. I’d had too many bad dreams about that back bedroom. It had grown too black and hungry. I was never eager to go in there. Especially not now, with the curtain drawn.

The house smelled of one-pot stew. Normally the odor of it carved my stomach hollow. During cold weather all Gran’s meals were one-pot something, simmered all day on the woodstove.

I lifted the lid of the cast-iron kettle and thick, meaty steam rose into my nostrils. A stream of condensed moisture rained from the heavy lid, hitting the stove top and hissing. Reaching for Gran’s blue spoon, I stirred the stew, turning chunks of potatoes, onions, carrots.

The whole mess needed more heat. I opened the stove door and used the blackened poker to spread the embers. Reaching into the wood box, I pulled out a couple splintery pieces of wood and laid them on the coals.

“Nyle.”

Gran’s voice rasped behind me. I hadn’t heard her come up.

Crouching a few more seconds in front of the woodstove, I dared not show my relief at hearing her voice. The heat from the orange coals toasted my face.

Finally I stood. “Tyrus killed one of the yearlings in the front pasture,” I said, turning to face her.

“Damn dog,” Gran said. “I’ll try to get through to Red. You put your things away upstairs, but come right back down, Nyle.”