Each time the door tears from its hinges I catch a glimpse of the room beyond. I see Simone sat in an overflowing bathtub, her face bloated as if from some horrific allergy. I cry out to her. I beg for her to let me in. I break down door after door after door. I scream for her, but know that it’s hopeless. I feel alone in the way an animal must when it knows the end is near.

I drive my shoulder once again into the wood and it finally gives way with a sickening crack. The door lurches open with an air of finality, and I step through it to find myself at home once again. I stand alone in the master bathroom and strain my ears to hear in the darkness. The house is quiet.

I inspect the bathroom but find nothing out of the ordinary. I wash my face in the sink and stare at myself in the mirror. It’s curious, I think to myself, that I can’t recall the last time I set foot in here.

I lie down in bed beside Simone and am asleep before I’m even sure that’s what I’m driving at.

In the morning she rolls over to face me.

‘I dreamt we were at sea,’ she says.

I contemplate telling her about my dream but think better of it. When she stands and drifts down into the belly of the house I dress and once again inspect the door to the master bathroom. I’m surprised to find a hairline fracture running the length of the frame. Fresh screws affixing the hinges.

XXXII

Days pass. The sickness draws ever closer, bringing with it an unrelenting heat. Missouri is quickly overrun and the neighbourhood comes alive with a nervous energy. Some pack their belongings and flee. I watch them leave with an impending sense of dread. Simon refuses to evacuate. I abandon all hope of convincing her and instead resolve myself to preparing for what lies ahead.

I gather up as many containers and buckets as I can find and fill each of them with water. I plug the sinks and fill them too. Though I briefly consider filling up the tub in the master bathroom, I find I can’t bring myself to go anywhere near it. Instead I slip over to Phil and Helen’s house and fill theirs.

I raid their cupboards for canned goods and other non-perishable foods, stuffing them in a sheet and lugging them back to our pantry where I perform a full inventory. We have enough food to last us, I don’t know, a month, maybe, if we rationed carefully?

I briefly consider the immense privilege of having absolutely no idea how much food a human being consumes on a weekly basis, and then try to push the fear of watching what was once plentiful grow scarce from my mind.

I sort the perishables by their sell-by dates and try to assure myself that all of this is an academic exercise. There’s no reason they’d shut off the utilities. But stranger things have happened, and if it came to it there would be no warning.