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sleep.
    The following day was Christmas Eve. The temperature inside the house gradually continued to drop throughout the day. We tore the wrapping paper and opened boxes from the gifts under the tree to restart the fire, but there was no dry wood left to sustain it. We had no choice but to start burning our belongings. We threw in books, picture frames, and various household items. Eventually, we started breaking up furniture to burn. It was devastating. Piece by piece, we watched old memories and family history literally go up in flames, producing heat that seemed to dissipate immediately as it rose to the high ceilings.
    Maria and I held each other and shivered, staring into the fireplace as if entranced. It wasn’t the fire that captivated us. It was an overwhelming sense of grief and helplessness that crept up on us both as we realized that the life that we had been working for was gone forever. Things would never go back to the way they had been. The house no longer felt like our home. It felt more like an oversizedcardboard box with nothing left to offer us except for rooms that were too big to heat.
    None of us had ever known true desperation. The feeling of having nothing was an unfamiliar one, and we didn’t know how to cope. As the sun went down that Christmas Eve, I almost envied the homeless or the people in third world countries who had never had a car or a computer or a cell phone. Their lives probably hadn’t changed much over the last few months. I lamented the inexorable loss of all my worldly desires—a big house, fancy cars, a corner office, and a six-figure salary—that would never again be fulfilled.
    We could hear explosions and screaming not far away. They were still rioting outside, and it was getting worse. People were cold and hungry. I think Paul knew all along what needed to be done. He was just waiting for me to say the word. I looked past all of our family toward him and Sarah, who were cuddled together in the same position on the floor that Maria and I were in. When he glanced back at me, I silently mouthed the word “farm.” He replied with a nod and then turned back to the fire. We would leave the next day.

3
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    THE ESSENTIALS
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    W hen the sun came up on Christmas day, there was not a cloud in the sky. We began packing right away with the sounds of rioting still in the background. Our burden was kept as light as possible, but there were certain things we knew we would need. First, of course, were food and water. Then came warmth. All the clothes we needed we were already wearing, having donned layer upon layer to keep from freezing in the night. Every sheet, blanket, and sleeping bag in the house came with us. The cabin at the farm was smaller than our house and, though a bit crowded, would be much more efficient to heat. It had a large fireplace in addition to the wood-burning stove. There was an abundance of wood there, so having a fuel source for heat and cooking wouldn’t be an issue as long as we were prepared and kept it protected from the weather. There was an axe and anopen shed for that purpose. We also brought a tent, just in case. Then toiletries—soap, shampoo, toothbrush, toothpaste, and dental floss—all of the hygienic necessities to keep us civilized and whatever medicine we had in the cabinet. My Mossberg came with us too, along with Paul’s assortment of hunting rifles. The Ka-Bar he had given me was still on my belt.
    We set off to the highway in a convoy of five cars, knowing that we were running on the last bit of fuel we would have for a long time. Our Christmas gift to ourselves that year was a new home at the farm. Two of the cars ran out of gas on the way, so we had to consolidate gear and people in the ones still running and leave the others behind. It was a tight trip.
    There were around twenty of us to begin with. Over the last few weeks, we had all been so consumed by adapting and coping with the collapse that none of us had had much communication