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kit—the shots! He’d
taken one just before the end of the whole mess, but then he’d lost it,
probably in those first frantic moments after the southern sky had flared a
deathly orange. After a minute of futile searching, Orin caught the fear in his
friend’s eyes. He softened his tone.
    “Look, Ben, missing one injection won’t
kill you. You have medicine at the house, right?”
    Ben nodded. He couldn’t tell if it was his
immune system, as he’d been told all these years, or his bruised psyche, but he
suddenly felt nauseous.
    “We’re almost home,” Orin said. “You can
dose up when we get there.”
    On cue, he yanked the wheel and the van
darted toward what was now an unmanned guard station. The entry to Hidden
Hills, their suburban Shangri La, was unguarded.
    Unguarded, but not at all open for
business.
    “Hold on,” Orin grunted as they bore
down on the lowered barrier. He was doing forty-five when he hit it; the van’s
grill shattered and radiator fluid geysered up onto the windshield, creating a
shimmering green curtain.
    “Christ!” Orin screamed, flicking on the
wipers. Shards of the fiberglass barrier swished back and forth on the glass.
Lina moaned as Orin struggled to keep the van under control. He popped up onto
the sidewalk briefly before lurching back into the road. He shot Ben a savage
grin. “Made it!”
    As they navigated the residential
labyrinth, Ben took it all in. There were already fires. How could that be? Not
fifteen minutes earlier, they had been watching the Super Bowl! A roof burned
while a thin man dressed only in boxer shorts trickled a stream of water from a
garden hose on the blaze.
    The man’s shoulders were slumped. Why
fight it? his posture said. It’s all going to burn anyway.
    Orin wove through columns of parked
cars, working the brakes and goosing the accelerator as residents—their neighbors—flooded
into the streets in fear. Roads with insipid Florida monikers slid by on either
side: Palmetto Street, Hyacinth Way, Orange Grove Place.
    Finally, and with a desperate squeal of rubber,
Orin angled into Graham Court. He spun the wheel, jammed down on the brakes, slammed
the transmission shifter on the steering column down and executed a harried
three-point turn, backing the van across the grass until the back doors abutted
the entrance to their home. He was out in a flash, sprinting to the sliding
door and yanking his sister from her seat.
    Ben went straight for the garage. There
were four pallets of water—each with six one-gallon jugs. He loaded them into
the van and pillaged the recycling bins for empty containers. There were about
a dozen empty milk jugs and he brought them into the bathroom in armloads. He drew
water in the tub and began to fill them up.
    “Good call,” Orin said, popping his head
into the bathroom. “There’s Tupperware in the kitchen when you’re through.
We’ve got ten minutes, Ben. Fifteen tops.”
    Lina poked her head in behind her
brother. “Fifteen…tops!” she repeated somberly, and Ben and Orin laughed
despite themselves. It was nice to see some life in the girl.
    He was rummaging through the containers
in the kitchen when he heard the murmured conflict echoing down the hallway. He
inched his way toward the voices. It was coming from Lina’s room.
    “We only have enough for our family .”
Orin said. There was an edge to his tone, though he wasn’t shouting. “I’m
sorry, Mr. Kravitch. We’re going to find my parents and then we’re going to
take shelter. You need to go home—take care of your own family.”
    “We won’t use your things!” a man’s
voice pleaded. “I promise! We just need some help until the worst of it has
passed.”
    “Look, I don’t appreciate you bringing
that in here,” Orin said. Ben wondered what he was talking about, but he didn’t
want to risk glancing into the room. Something in his gut told him to stay
hidden. “We don’t want any trouble. We’re just trying to do what we can to