Thelma muttered, “Here we go.”

“Ernt,” Ted said. “It’s just a job. We need the money.”

Dad raised his hands, smiling.

(Leni knew that smile: it was not a sign of happiness.)

“I am not blaming anyone. I understand. I’m just pointing out a danger you’ve missed. When TSHTF, our neighbors will all have sob stories to tell. They’ll want what we have and you’ll want to give it to them. You’ve known them a long time. I get it. So I’m here to protect you from yourselves, too.”

“Bo woulda wanted that,” Mad Earl said. He rolled a cigarette and lit it up, taking a drag so deep Leni thought he might die on the spot. “Tell ’em,” Mad Earl said, finally exhaling.

Dad squatted down, opened the cardboard flaps of the box, and reached in. He then got back to his feet, holding a plank of wood that had been studded with hundreds of nails, hammered in close to each other to make what looked like a weapon. In his other hand, he held a hand grenade. “No one is ever going to just walk into this place again. First, we’re going to build a wall and put razor wire on top. Then we’ll dig a ditch around the perimeter, in the places where attackers will come in. We’ll fill it with these nail beds, broken glass, spikes. Anything we can think of.”

Thelma laughed.

“This ain’t no joke, missy,” Mad Earl said.

“You put the grenade in a mason jar,” Dad said, beaming at his cleverness. “We remove the pin, put the grenade in the jar, and compress the safety lever. Then we bury it. When someone steps on it, the jar breaks, and kablooey.”

No one spoke. They just stood there, dogs barking in the background.

Mad Earl clapped Dad on the back. “Hell of an idea, Ernt. Hell of an idea.”

“No,” Thelma said. And then: “No. No.”

With Mad Earl’s cackle going full volume, it took a moment for Thelma’s quieter voice to be heard. She pushed her way to the front, then took another step, until she was standing alone, the point of the arrow. “No,” she said again.

“No?” her father said, his mouth squelching up.

“He’s off his rocker, Dad,” Thelma said. “We have children here. And, let’s face it, more than a few drinkers. We can’t booby-trap the perimeter of our home with buried explosives. We’ll kill one of us, most likely.”

“Your job isn’t security, Thelma,” Dad said. “It’s mine.”