According to a representative for the town’s department of water and power, it could not provide services because its water and electricity had been cut off at the source—the Salt River Project in Phoenix. The project had said, alternately, that the department had not paid its bills and that its quota of services had already been provided. Cited as proof were invoices received through the mail.

But the representative assured Doug and Tritia that the problems would soon be solved, and water and electricity restored.

The man at the phone company, the same manager Doug had talked to before, was even less specific and promised nothing.

It was ironic that the people who were probably having the least difficulty adapting to these circumstances were the ones living on the outskirts of the town, those who normally lived in the most primitive conditions. Now, with their wells and septic tanks and butane generators, their lives were going on as normal, while the rest of them ate cold food and took cold showers and lit candles for light.

“I hope this doesn’t last all night,” Tritia said.

Doug took a bite of his tortilla crepe. “It probably will.”

Billy dropped his fork, and it fell loudly onto his plate. He had hardly eaten anything, had merely cut up and smeared and played with his food.

Tritia fixed him with a no-nonsense stare. “Finish eating your dinner,” she said.

Billy groaned. “I don’t—”

A rock crashed through one of the front windows, glass shattering explosively, muffled not at all by the closed curtains. There was the sound of another rock hitting hard against the outside wall.

“Fucker!” someone yelled angrily. The voice was that of an adult male, not a child, not a teenager.

Doug quickly pushed back his chair, knocking it over as he scrambled around the table toward the front door.

“Don’t!” Tritia yelled. Her face was white with fear.

Billy, too, looked scared, and Doug could feel his own heart pounding within his chest, but he rushed to the door anyway.

Another rock hit.

“Fucker!”

And then there was the sound of flying gravel, a pickup peeling out and speeding away.

Doug pulled open the door and ran onto the porch in time to see the taillights of a truck disappearing between the trees. There was still a cloud of dust in the drive. He looked down. At his feet on the porch were several rocks approximately the size of softballs. Although only one had hit the window, two of the others had hit the wall and had been thrown with enough strength to make small splintered indentations in the wooden front of the A-frame. How the hell had someone been able to drive close enough to the house to throw rocks this size and not be heard?

From down the road in the silent forest, he heard the sound of triumphant whooping and hollering, growing fainter as the truck sped farther away.