Sawyer filters that were still sealed. Ceramic backups. Iodine tablets, vacuum-packed with silica packets.
Food occupied the longest wall.
Canned proteins. Rice in mylar bags with oxygen absorbers. Beans labeled by calorie count. Enough for both of us to survive for months, if not years.
Medical supplies took the far corner.
Trauma kits, which included tourniquets, were positioned at three different heights for easy access from the floor. Chest seals and suture kits were also available; I used the latter so proficiently that it was one of the few times I received praise from Ben.
Ammo crates were stacked beneath the workbench, each labeled by caliber and grain weight. Inventory sheets clipped to the wall showed counts updated weekly.
Not monthly.
Weekly.
Ben planned on being prepared for any eventuality.
I checked the whiteboard to make sure that everything was up to date.
Water-Rotate 3 Days
Ammo-Inventory
Med-Check seals
Fuel-Stabilizer
Meteor shower expected 10/10
Fuel was new.
He must have been thinking about power grids again. EMPs, sabotage, and infrastructure collapse. He’d shown me maps once—substations circled in red.
I wasn’t surprised he’d noted the meteor shower. He kept track of those things all the time.
Everything looked good. Nothing needed doing.
I went back up the stairs and closed the door behind me, turning the dial again until the numbers scrambled. The habit was ingrained deep enough that my hands did it even when my mind wandered.
Forty minutes.
That’s how long I had before he came home and expected updates—on school, on practice, and on anything else he thought was relevant.
I showered fast. No music. Still in complete silence. When I dressed, I chose jeans and a long-sleeve shirt.
Looking in the mirror above the sink, I stared into my gray eyes, so very similar to his. Dark brown hair framed a heart-shaped face. Full lips that rarely smiled, if ever, and a slightly upturned nose completed the picture.
I sighed at my reflection as I braided my hair. I was tired. So, freaking tired. Sometimes this life felt pointless. Alwaysplanning moves to stay off Ben’s radar and preparing for situations that were likely to never happen.
There had to be more.
Enough self-pity. The clock was ticking.
I laced up my shoes and heard gravel crunch in the driveway.
Ben was home.
I rushed into the kitchen and began chopping vegetables the way he liked. The knife moved steadily in my hand.
