Autumn in the City of Angels by Kirby Howell

make me go crazy.
    It was a bird.  It had to be a bird, I told myself as I walked back to the kitchen and went back to my chores in an attempt to regain focus.  I’d been on the verge of looking at my rations, taking a list of my remaining food.  I started piling what was left of my meager store on the countertop, breathing deeply and reading each label carefully to force my mind back into the mundane task.
    I learned quickly that food always looked like more than it really was when tucked into a cabinet.  I could never accurately keep track of what I had if I left it hidden away.  One day last week, I opened a cabinet, surprised to find an unopened box of crackers hidden toward the back.  I could have sworn they hadn’t been there before, but there they were, the yellow box of carbs shining like a beacon in the darkness.
    So now I stood on a chair and chewed on my lip as I dug through the cabinet above the stove.  Where was it, I thought, shoving aside tins of cinnamon and allspice.  I was sure I’d seen a tiny bottle of honey in here just last night.  Crap.  This was why I needed to do inventory more often.  Did I down the rest of the honey like cough syrup while sleepwalking?  I didn’t sleepwalk... did I?  I perched on the counter, resting for a moment and tried to sort out my thoughts.
    My iPod blared music in the living room.  In the interest of keeping myself from going insane, which didn’t seem to be working presently, I’d planned several projects.  One of which was listening to every album I owned, from beginning to end, three times in a row.  I used to have the problem of buying an album and getting hooked on a song or two and then never listening to the other songs.  My iTunes informed me I had nearly twenty-six days of music, the majority of these being un-listened-to tracks, so I figured it would be a good time to finally get familiar with my collection.  If nothing else, it kept my ears busy, which in turn, kept my head busy.
    Listening to the music helped distract me from my thoughts of the boy who’d rescued me a month earlier.  I’d been unable to stop thinking about him since.  He had disappeared as abruptly as he’d appeared.  I often stood by the window, looking down at the cluttered street, imagining a boy striding toward The Water Tower, long legs and a soft wool sweater.  When it got to the part where I had to imagine his hair, eyes and face, I drew a blank and the fantasy shattered.
    I wondered if he’d meant what he said about coming back for me to join him and the other survivors when it was safe.  I had no idea how long it might take to set up a secret camp.  What if he’d forgotten his promise?  Or what if he’d gotten hurt?  Or left Los Angeles entirely?  I tried not to think too negatively.  I needed to believe he was coming back.  It was sad, but it was the only thing I had left in the world to look forward to.
    I rested on the counter behind me, then leaned forward, resting my head on my knees and letting my hair fall to my ankles like a red waterfall.  I sighed.  There were so many little mysteries surrounding the boy.  Not only did I not know his name, or see his face, but the question of how he’d gotten me all the way home and into the penthouse still puzzled me.  True, I had told him where I lived, and about the safety precautions my dad took.  I was slightly embarrassed, though, thinking about him carrying me multiple blocks while I probably snored like a mule on his shoulder.
    Despite my embarrassment, I’d almost left a couple times to go to Hollywood High School to find him, but ultimately talked myself out of it.  He’d told me to stay here and that he would come get me.  So I stayed put, rationed my food and water, listened to my music three times in a row and tried to ignore the frequent dreams where I heard him call my name over and over.  In those dreams, I could never find him.  My chest ached when I woke up, but there was