Travis took great pride in the fact that he had never been in love, at least not mutually with anyone other than himself. His weekly present to himself was honoring his own mortality by taking Friday night and Saturday day off to enjoy himself, as was the Jewish weekly tradition of Shabbat, or otherwise known as the Sabbath. For Travis, taking Shabbat was the only way to justify his soul-crunching work ethic. If Travis didn't find something productive to do over the period of time it took for us to be rescued, he would then face the struggle of justifying his weekly 25 hours off from being productive. He would then need to discover another strategy to love himself. I would guess long bouts of cross-legged meditation and star-gazed philosophizing will become his tranquilizing cups of tea over the coming wintery nights. And as for ways on being productive, systematizing our survival, should please his blessed lonely heart.

He was the only boy awake at five a.m. The stench of Clorox was still putrid on the third floor while the chilling breeze swept in and circulated the horrible stench through the now open doors of the master bedroom and bathroom. Travis had opened them just before I had ventured quietly up the stairs to discover him sitting at a kitchen table, with his back to me, eating a bowl of Special K cereal with a gallon of 2% milk as he stared out through some perfectly intact windows out onto the glistening ocean sunset. The view was a golden-velvet masterpiece, and it was amazing how the clouds above had so quickly thinned and turned to a friendly light blue. When I walked over behind Travis to make my entrance, I laid both my hands on his unmuscular shoulders and planted a nice, soft kiss on both his cheeks, the likes of which he had never experienced (at least from no one other than his mother—but Mrs. Gibbs was passed away now, and as lady of this bay house, I guess it was my duty to show these boys some motherly affection). Travis's mom was twinkling her eyes up at Travis from that gorgeous sunset (the stretch of floor leading to our view blocked the terrible strip of tsunami carnage below), and I knew my affection to Travis were permitted by my man Jacob Daniels because Travis was Jack's moral, philosophical, academic, emotional and spiritual mentor, and his best friend, and plus, in absolutely no way did Jack consider Travis a competitive romantic threat by any means (for Travis's own parents still question the position of Travis's sexuality on the seven-point scale from straight to gay, and for the longest time, Jack got me to wonder too if Travis was fluid or entirely asexual. I'm glad Jack finally knows what his best friend's sexual orientation is now, because I sure still don't.

When Travis finally dropped his eyes from the spiritual eyes of his mother in that golden-violet horizon sunrise, he turned to me with a confused but polite and welcoming smile, nodded to the gallon of 2% milk, and said, "I'm only drinking the 2% so it won't go bad. I know you're sometimes vegan, Zara, so you'll be pleased to find the cabinet on the left chalk full of soy, almond, coconut and cashew milk."

I smiled and hugged his neck while snuggling my cheek into his coy and arrogant face. "What do you mean I am sometimes vegan? I'm always vegan except when it comes to salmon and sushi."

"That's too bad," said Travis, grinning, "that would make you a pescatarian."

I laughed and hit him softly on the face like a brother as I stood and tried to grasp for the 2%.

But Travis pulled it away and said nuh-uh-uh.

I raised my eyebrows and said, "What? I was going to put it away."

Travis poured the remainder of the milk in his bowl and shook the empty gallon to demonstrate the air inside made no noise. "The milk's all gone," he said.

I suddenly realized the severity of that statement—The milk's all gone-- and I froze to wonder how much food and drink we still had left, to survive on.

Travis's face looked at me with a recognition of my sudden seriousness, and he said, "I counted up all the food and checked all the expiration dates. . . we have to eat half our food supply today, or it will perish tomorrow. The rest we'll need to ration for as long as we can. I only think we can survive on it for less than twenty days. . ."

My heart stopped and I asked, "And after that?"

Travis merely looked at me like a man who knew nothing more. He said, "After that. . . Pray somebody saves us."