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“There’s an emergency release?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying not to crack up. “There is. Go in there, and I’ll tell you how to open it.”

“This is how you die in the zombie apocalypse,” she said with wonder. “I always thought it would be an infected zombie bite or exposure or something, but it’s this. You get a caffeine headache on the first day and you lose your will to live and you just lie down and they eat you.”

I laughed. “In the event of a zombie apocalypse, I promise I will not let you get eaten.”

“How? You’re not here.”

“I’d come get you. I’d put together a recovery team. You’re a doctor. You’re a high-value acquisition. Doug bet me a hundred bucks I couldn’t get the best Zompac squad, I need you.”

She laughed weakly.

I heard a door open. “Okay, I’m in here.”

“All right. You might need a ladder. Look for the motor. It’s a small box on the ceiling in the middle of the garage. It’s attached to a metal runner that pulls the door up. There’s a little string hanging down from it. You see it?”

“Yeah.”

“You pull that and then you can lift the door from the bottom and open it.”

There was a quiet pause. “Daniel, you’re my hero.”

“Well, thank you. But I think the standard’s a little low.”

She paused. “I hate that I don’t know things.”

“How many bones are there in the human body?”

“Two hundred and six,” she said without skipping a beat.

“Which one’s your favorite?”

“I like the hyoid bone. It’s basically free floating and no one talks about it.” She sniffed. “It’s very underrated.”

I smiled. “Yeah, I think you’re doing okay.”

She laughed, and I heard the garage door open.

“Why is the power out?” I asked, nodding at Popeye shuffling in.

“I don’t know.”

“Is it the whole block?”

“Gabby and Jessica aren’t home, so I don’t know.”

“Did you check the breaker?” I asked.

“What’s that?”

I shook my head with a smile. God, this was so her. She was this conundrum of a woman. Completely remarkable in every way, doesn’t know about breaker boxes or how to wash a load of whites or make a bed. I think I’d been cleaning since I was old enough to walk. One of Grandma’s favorite pictures of me was me, three years old, holding a toilet bowl scrubber.

“There’s probably an electrical panel in the garage,” I said. “Go look for it.”

“Okay, hold on.”

“It’s metal,” I said, putting my coffee cup to my lips. “Probably gray. It’ll have switches on it.”