Instructions for the End of the World by Jamie Kain

rifle.”
    â€œBut—” slips out of my mouth before I can stop myself. It’s my father’s least favorite word.
    He gives me a sharp look. “You’ll be fine,” he says, but I can’t tell if he’s trying to convince me or himself.
    Questions crowd my thoughts, but before I can form any of them into words, my dad snaps shut the black binder and holds it out to me. I can see now it’s the household binder, which contains every detail he considers necessary for the proper running of our family. It’s a strange document he created for my mom, my sister, and I years ago, which we never look at unless forced to but that he refers to at any opportunity.
    I take the binder, the weight of it awkward in my hands, and clutch it to my chest as if I am drowning and it will keep me afloat.
    Me and Izzy alone in this broken-down house, in the middle of nowhere, does not sound like a good idea. But this is another one of his challenges, I know. He wants me to prove I can do it. He wants me to show that I can survive, no matter what the circumstances.
    I stare out the window beyond his desk, as if I might find some answers there, written in the sky. I can think of a million reasons him leaving us here to go look for Mom is a bad idea, but then, I know he can’t just sit around waiting, either. It’s not his style.
    â€œWhere will you look?” I finally ask.
    â€œThat’s not for you to worry about.” He squints at me as if I’m slow-witted.
    More questions occur, like how will we get in touch if something happens? Dad doesn’t have a cell phone, because he believes they’re unnecessary crutches and make it too easy for the government to track our every move, and being the good daughter I am, I opted not to get one, either. Izzy has a cell phone, but the reception here only works occasionally, if she goes and stands outside in the driveway, and even then it’s weak and spotty.
    â€œYou two keep working through the chore list,” he says. “With any luck I’ll be back in a few days or a week.”
    With any luck. I try to imagine keeping Izzy out of trouble for a whole week. I guess it’s possible, since we live so far from everything, but how will I survive a week alone with her?
    Or more than a week?
    I can’t let myself ponder that.
    My father is not the kind of man you argue with when you are his daughter. He is so sure of his own rightness that any voice to suggest otherwise is as comprehensible and convincing to him as a fly buzzing around his head. It is no more than an irritant to be swatted away, or preferably, crushed.
    I have known this for as long as I can remember, though it’s only recently become an idea I can put into words.
    â€œWhere’s Isabel?” he says, brushing past the desk and picking up, I notice only now, a suitcase that has been sitting next to the door.
    â€œIn her room, I think.”
    â€œIsabel,” he yells into the hallway. “Get down here.”
    Izzy comes slinking down the stairs, her feet clad in purple thong sandals, her denim shorts and tank top just this side of too skimpy on her newly curvy body to pass Dad’s approval.
    She blinks at us but says nothing.
    â€œI’m going to look for your mother. Your sister’s in charge while I’m gone. You’re to do whatever she says, you understand?”
    Izzy’s mouth opens, her expression horrified. “What?”
    â€œYou heard me. I don’t want any sass.”
    â€œI want to go too,” she says.
    â€œYou’re staying here to get the house fixed up. You’ve got a chore list to work through so when your mother and I get back everything’s ready for her.”
    I can’t imagine what he means by getting the house fixed up. Are we supposed to ignore the stains on the walls and ceiling, the broken, duct-taped windows, the creepy haunted house vibe, and just set up housekeeping as if this