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rake handle, which I grab. As I shift the pile around, I also spot an old rusty saw. I return inside through the back kitchen door, which—of course—has a push-button lock that even Rosie could pick. I place my makeshift locking devices on the floor and go from drawer to drawer in the pantry in search of an old hammer or anything that resembles one. Finally, I dig out a few old tacks and a screwdriver. Then I race around the house, inspecting the walls for any nails or old tacks I can pull out.
    As I walk to the basement door that leads downstairs, I’m still short a hammer and nails. The door sits in a vestibule between the kitchen and the bathroom, where there’s a full-length mirror. As I spot my reflection, I lose my concentration. There before me stands a stranger. She’s pretty, but so skinny she startles me. I have to try to eat more.
    I stop and examine my features: my skin that’s tanned dark brown from watching Rosie and Norm outside in the sun; my hair, wavy and somewhat wild, lightened from black to auburn by the sun. My eyes are a bold shade that’s more black than brown . . . darker than the translucent brown eyes all my siblings and my mother have. I cringe at the space between my two front teeth and the length of my nose, which is too big for my face.
    I open the basement door and ever so carefully take the first three steps down. Fortunately, there’s a string attached to an upside-down lightbulb that serves as a light, but when I pull on the string, the bulb is burned out. I take a few more slow steps and notice that a window leading into the basement is broken. That means I’ll have to figure out how to secure the inside basement door that leads back into the kitchen. There’s no water heater in sight; the basement is dank and empty, except for an old washing machine with its plumbing yanked out in the back and a few boxes containing nothing but old, smelly mildewed clothes and a lampshade. At least, I figure, the clothes can serve as curtains or pillow stuffing. Then I spot gray metal shelves and feel around for nails . . . yes! My fingers locate about eight screws and nails to add to my collection. As I put my hardware inside the box of clothes and make my way back toward the stairs, I spot a filthy old iron and I grab that, too.
    I lock the back door and lean a chair under the handle so if someone tries to come in, the chair’s fall will warn us loudly. Then I move into the vestibule that leads to the basement, where I use the scissors to cut the cord off the iron. Using the iron as my hammer, I bang a nail into the door frame and wrap the snipped cord between the doorknob and the nail, creating a tight figure eight that would slow down an intruder trying to come into the first level of the house through the basement door.
    I place all the broom and rake handles and tree limbs on the kitchen table, using the saw to cut them so they’ll fit diagonally in the windows and serve as window jambs. After securing all the downstairs windows plus the one in my bedroom, I rummage through the box of clothes I found in the basement. From window to window on the first floor, I pound nails on both sides of the windowpanes. I drape button-down shirts, sweatshirts, and T-shirts across each window for curtains. Closing the windows will cut off any air circulation through the house . . . but it’s better to be sweaty than sorry. During this process I realize we’ll be sleeping downstairs every night because it’s cooler than upstairs, and because we could run out either the front or back door if someone were to break in. With the two living room couches and Cookie’s bed, we’ll each have our own place to sleep. Whew: good work!
    Now the pillow dilemma. I stuff the gray Hanes T-shirt and another shirt with the stuffing and close the openings in the shirts. The kids will have pillows for tonight. Mine will wait until tomorrow.
    The kids agree to move downstairs. When I check on Rosie in Cookie’s