She was dragging a five-gallon jug to the front door when she heard Eunjoo screeching. Calliope dropped the water and scuttled through the doorway. Outside, Eunjoo was cowering on the ground, Phoenix’s backpack still on her back like a tortoise shell, her arms covering her face. In front of the girl, just a few feet away, a pack of coyotes, their reddish-brown fur bristling against their rawboned bodies, their teeth bared, muscles tensed. With all the people gone, maybe they’d been out dumpster diving, a gluttony of garbage-eating, but there must’ve been plenty of food not yet rotten. Why attack a child?

“Scare them,” Calliope hissed to herself or Amy or Eunjoo, she wasn’t sure, momentarily frozen in panic. “They’re afraid of humans.” She looked over to check if Amy was seeing this, but she was still inside stockpiling junk food. “Amy,” she shouted, snapping out of her immobility. “Help!” Calliope raised her hands above her head, waving them wildly.

Amy jerked her head toward the parking lot, and yelled, “What the shit!” Then she grabbed a rack of magazines and threw it out the glass hole toward the pack, but the coyotes didn’t budge. “Shit-shit-shit!” Amy shouted, continuing to throw things.

Calliope dropped her load of groceries, ran in front of Eunjoo, blocking the coyote’s path to the girl. Bile snaked through Calliope’s throat and her chest pounded, but she kept yelling. The coyotes were growling but didn’t move. Calliope scanned her mind for everything she knew about coyotes. They didn’t hunt in packs. They only banded together if they were investigating, curious about something new. They didn’t usually approach humans. They were afraid—unless they’d lost their fear because a human had fed them. Had Eunjoo fed them? She yelled louder, waving her arms frantically, Amy still throwing things—now six-packs of beer bottles. The coyotes howled, an eerie, otherworldly sound in the early morning light. One grizzled dog skulked forward from the pack, hackles raised, and Eunjoo began backing away. Amy finally hit one with a full quart-sized glass bottle, shattering against its flank, and the animal retreated, yelping. The distraction allowed Calliope time to edge backward, close enough to Eunjoo to snatch her up and scramble her into the car. As Eunjoo climbed over the front seat, Calliope turned the key, revving the engine. She threw the car into reverse and drove straight toward the pack, honking the horn. The dogs scattered, trotting toward a clearing of trees. Calliope drove to the front of the store, away from the glass. She got out to help Amy finish loading the car with groceries, but Eunjoo was crying, striking that hysterical pitch children reach when they’ve hit their emotional wall or are hurt badly.

“What is it?” Amy asked, coming up behind her. “Is she okay?”