convince me to leave.
I’m almost certain that we’re not alone here. I’m still worried about dogs. Our scent could give us away. We skirt the gas station, with its shot-out windows. We circle the weirdly intact market. I take out the binoculars but I don’t see any bodies.
We circle and I try to keep us upwind of the buildings as long as possible. We trudge along with the fickle mountain breezes that could so easily betray us. We’re out in the open but there’s no other choice.
The door to the Mexican restaurant bangs in the wind. The service bay door of the tire shop is open. We circle the market and check out the other buildings. If everything is quiet, we’ll approach the market again from the front. A black pit bull walks out of the wrecking yard and lifts its head to sample the breeze. It looks directly at us, then trots away to the south.
Susan
We’re in danger here. I know we are, but we need food, so I can’t very well ask Jerry to bypass it. We walk narrow streets that funnel us into more narrow streets. I see no movement behind the dusty windows of the houses and shops that surround us, but that doesn’t mean no one is watching.
I pray while I walk. We need food, but that’s not what I’m praying for. I pray to be left alone. Is it such an impossible thing to ask? Just let us be left alone. But no man is an island, as they say. What I
really
want is a safe haven, but I don’t have the nerve to pray for that today. We keep walking. No one shoots at us, and that’s the very definition of hospitality, isn’t it? The odds of having faith in others aren’t very good, but sometimes there’s no other choice but to bet everything on trust.
Cynical. I’m turning into a coldhearted cow. Mustn’t let the others see it. No. I won’t. Optimism is the best medicine for this condition. Optimism and sacrifice and whatever courage I can muster. These are the things we need, now. Quiet courage and kindness, even if they’re not entirely true. The small things, like preparing meals for them. Tucking them into their ponchos at night, trying to get them to remember the bedtime feeling of childhood, the feeling of snapped-out blankets hovering above them, about to float down and create a magical shell of warmth and safety. Having coffee ready when they wake, and clothes that have been at least brushed off, and something special at breakfast—a handful of wild berries or a stick of gum for after they eat. I can still enjoy that kind of thing, and they can, too.
And we mustn’t give in completely to the mistrust that’s all around us. The enemy is everywhere, because the enemy is also within us. And so if we can’t rise above it—if we can’t be decent and kind to each other—we’ll lose the fight. It’s maybe a silly way of thinking, but I’ll see if I can squeeze myself into the glass that’s half full. Even if I don’t believe we’re better than anyone else, I’ll fake it like I’ve never faked anything before. If all life is a stage, then I’m going straight for my Oscar moment, walking with this shotgun in my hands, but quick to smile when the danger passes, and quick to do special things for them. And maybe I’ll even be nice to strangers, too, if I ever get the chance.
Melanie
It’s a tiny, lonely place, but it feels like a city after being in the hills for all those days. Mom and Dad want to scrounge for food. If they thought about it, they’d see that taking stuff from people who can’t protect it is the very definition of looting.
“I’ll go in alone,” Dad says.
Mom doesn’t disagree with Dad very often, but she isn’t a submissive housewife either.
“No you won’t. All of us go, or none of us,” she says.
Dad has the good sense not to argue. We walk around the community buildings, a Chamber of Commerce with a fresh brick façade, a Methodist church, and a coffee shop called Moody Brews. The town is in a bowl that’s like a big navel in the ripped belly of the
I’m almost certain that we’re not alone here. I’m still worried about dogs. Our scent could give us away. We skirt the gas station, with its shot-out windows. We circle the weirdly intact market. I take out the binoculars but I don’t see any bodies.
We circle and I try to keep us upwind of the buildings as long as possible. We trudge along with the fickle mountain breezes that could so easily betray us. We’re out in the open but there’s no other choice.
The door to the Mexican restaurant bangs in the wind. The service bay door of the tire shop is open. We circle the market and check out the other buildings. If everything is quiet, we’ll approach the market again from the front. A black pit bull walks out of the wrecking yard and lifts its head to sample the breeze. It looks directly at us, then trots away to the south.
Susan
We’re in danger here. I know we are, but we need food, so I can’t very well ask Jerry to bypass it. We walk narrow streets that funnel us into more narrow streets. I see no movement behind the dusty windows of the houses and shops that surround us, but that doesn’t mean no one is watching.
I pray while I walk. We need food, but that’s not what I’m praying for. I pray to be left alone. Is it such an impossible thing to ask? Just let us be left alone. But no man is an island, as they say. What I
really
want is a safe haven, but I don’t have the nerve to pray for that today. We keep walking. No one shoots at us, and that’s the very definition of hospitality, isn’t it? The odds of having faith in others aren’t very good, but sometimes there’s no other choice but to bet everything on trust.
Cynical. I’m turning into a coldhearted cow. Mustn’t let the others see it. No. I won’t. Optimism is the best medicine for this condition. Optimism and sacrifice and whatever courage I can muster. These are the things we need, now. Quiet courage and kindness, even if they’re not entirely true. The small things, like preparing meals for them. Tucking them into their ponchos at night, trying to get them to remember the bedtime feeling of childhood, the feeling of snapped-out blankets hovering above them, about to float down and create a magical shell of warmth and safety. Having coffee ready when they wake, and clothes that have been at least brushed off, and something special at breakfast—a handful of wild berries or a stick of gum for after they eat. I can still enjoy that kind of thing, and they can, too.
And we mustn’t give in completely to the mistrust that’s all around us. The enemy is everywhere, because the enemy is also within us. And so if we can’t rise above it—if we can’t be decent and kind to each other—we’ll lose the fight. It’s maybe a silly way of thinking, but I’ll see if I can squeeze myself into the glass that’s half full. Even if I don’t believe we’re better than anyone else, I’ll fake it like I’ve never faked anything before. If all life is a stage, then I’m going straight for my Oscar moment, walking with this shotgun in my hands, but quick to smile when the danger passes, and quick to do special things for them. And maybe I’ll even be nice to strangers, too, if I ever get the chance.
Melanie
It’s a tiny, lonely place, but it feels like a city after being in the hills for all those days. Mom and Dad want to scrounge for food. If they thought about it, they’d see that taking stuff from people who can’t protect it is the very definition of looting.
“I’ll go in alone,” Dad says.
Mom doesn’t disagree with Dad very often, but she isn’t a submissive housewife either.
“No you won’t. All of us go, or none of us,” she says.
Dad has the good sense not to argue. We walk around the community buildings, a Chamber of Commerce with a fresh brick façade, a Methodist church, and a coffee shop called Moody Brews. The town is in a bowl that’s like a big navel in the ripped belly of the
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