July 4

We're one day into the volcanic eruptions and everything feels so suffocating. Grandma and Grandpa moved into my bedroom, so I had to move into Mira and May's bedroom. I haven't shared bedrooms in a while, and it feels awful. No more privacy or time for myself.

Today was our first day of reduced meals. Mom and Mira tried to make it better by making pho. They took three packages of noodles (so that each person gets half a package) and mixed in some green onions from the pots in our house along with some canned chicken. It tasted pretty good, and I guess it made my day slightly better.

I've been thinking about the bucket list thing a lot today. I wanted to put something that would be impossible to achieve, like going skydiving or sailing across the ocean, but I think Charles is taking this seriously, so I will too.

I can't think of anything though. The only thing I've got is the "Make Charles do something embarrassing" one and that doesn't even count because it's not specific. I don't know how to explain this, but it feels like having five choices (well four now) is just not enough to capture everything I want to do for this summer, but at the same time, it feels like too much.

I don't think I'll ever be able to see Charles again. The ash is still snowing down onto our town. We've got about two inches over the roads. It must be worse farther up north. Some of the towns would be covered in many feet of that suffocating ash.

I wonder when it'll rain. At least then the ash won't billow around every time a gust of wind passes through.

July 5

More ash today.

Mom and Dad went out to try to clear up the ash from the rooftops. Dad is worried that if too much ash piles up onto the roof, it might collapse. Every time that they scrape off another layer of ash, the grayish dust blossoms and enshrouds our house before settling down.

It's been getting colder too. With little sunlight reaching the ground, the temperature only seems to get cooler and cooler. In the middle of the afternoon, the temperature was in the low seventies, but that's only because we have an ocean next to us to stabilize the temperature. I would imagine that the temperatures in the Central Valley would be much colder, maybe low sixties or high fifties.

"I told you everything was going to get bad," I said to May.

"What's your point?" May said.

"Just saying," I said.

"It's not like we could do anything about it," she said. "It happened, so yeah."

"Aren't you worried?" I asked.

"It's not like that would help anything," she said. "Just wait and everything will go back to normal. We'll probably have to go back to school and be stuck in boring classes by the time August hits."

"Plus," she added. "Didn't you always want an apocalypse to happen?"

"When did I say that?" I asked.

"I don't know," she said. "You were pretty obsessed with apocalyptic stuff."

I guess she's right. Everything about an apocalypse seems almost appealing. When everyone dies, it gives you a chance to start over, a fresh beginning and almost a new chance of life. The life and death stakes make life seem like it actually matters in a strange, twisted way. Like your actions have really real consequences.

But here, there's no chance at a fresh start. Mom, Dad, Mira, May, Grandpa, Grandma, and I are all stuck in the same home, trapped by the snowfall of dust. Our worlds seem to get smaller and smaller— not bigger like all apocalypses. And the worst part of all that is the life and death stakes can't be changed. It's not like a zombie apocalypse where you can just kill the zombies and win. No one can stop the volcanoes, not me, not May, not any of the scientists or governments.

That's the worst part. The feeling that nothing you do actually matters.

July 6

At least it stopped snowing ash today.

Mom and Mira went outside today with their air masks on to try to brush ash off the plant leaves so that they'll be able to receive what little sunshine passes through the clouds. The issue is that every time that they shuffled through the garden, clouds of ash stirred up. Mom and Mira wanted to use the water from the gardening hose to clump down the ash.

That's when Mira and Dad started fighting again, breaking their fragile truce.

"We're using the water to keep the ash down," Mira said.

"No," Dad said.

"What do you mean, no?" Mira said.

"We're not doing it," Dad said. "It's not smart."

"You know what's not smart," Mira said. "Letting the garden die because the plants can't get any sunshine."

"We don't know what's going to come after," Dad said. "We don't know if another ash storm is going to come or if we're going to run out of water. What's more important to you, keeping those plants alive even though, let's be honest, they have little chance of survival without sunlight or not dying of dehydration, or using your time and resources to do something that actually will last us through this."

"Those plants will be our only source of food when we run out of canned stuff," Mira retorted. "We have water right now. We should use it."

"We don't know what's going to happen next," Dad said. "Saving water is what we should be doing."

"No," Mira said. "What we should be doing is keeping our crops alive, so we'll have food."

"No. We're not continuing your gardening vanity project," Dad said. "This is not play-acting. This is the real deal—"

"I'm not playing. You think this is a game for me," Mira said. "I'm taking this as seriously as you are."

"If you are doing that, you should be filling up all the bottles and pots in our house."

When Mira walked away, I thought that would be the end of the conversation. But instead, she turned on the hose and began spraying the ground. Dad stormed outside.

"Turn it off," he yelled.

"No," Mira said. "We need to save the plants."

"We're not going to do that," Dad said. "Turn it off or else."

"No," Mira said, and Dad lunged for the faucet. A gust of wind kicked up a storm of ash, and Dad began coughing loudly.

"What are you guys doing?" Mom said. "Get inside immediately."

"No," Mira said. "Not until Dad listens to me."

"Turn off the faucet Mira," Dad said.

"Listen to your father Mira," Mom said. "We will discuss this inside. Not out here."

"You guys never listen to me," Mira shouted, turning off the faucet and storming into her room. Dad looked smug with a tinge of sadness while Mom looked tired. Watching people fight can be even more exhausting than participating in them.

Our day went on about as normally as any day would. Everyone sat inside the house doing nothing because there was nothing to do. May and I were banned from leaving the house because Mom is paranoid about inhaling ash. The SAT booklets and practice problems feel pointless right now. I mean the world looks like it's ending.

Mira missed dinner today. I knocked on her door and entered her room. "Do you want to eat?" I asked.

"No, I'm not really hungry."

"Okay," I said. "Do you want me to leave?"

"I just don't get it," she said. "Why don't Mom and Dad ever listen to me?"

I sat next to her. "Dad's idea was good—"

"So are you taking Dad's side now?"

"I'm not taking anyone's side," I said. "But objectively speaking, saving water feels more important."

I continued. "You and Dad are all so stubborn. I guess everyone in this family is a little bit stubborn, but especially you and Dad."

"I just feel like Dad never listens to anything that I say," she said. "Like none of my ideas have any merit. And Mom always just seems to agree with him."

"Dad has a way of not listening to anyone else," I said. "And it can be frustrating. But sometimes it makes him really focus on the important stuff."

"Look," I added. "You and Dad are not going to fix things easily and maybe not perfectly right now. But maybe you don't need to have everything fixed perfectly. You're an adult now. You don't need to listen to our parents anymore."

"But that's the thing. I don't know why, but I want, like really, deeply want, Mom and Dad's approval. It just makes me feel noticed or like needed."

"Maybe it's time to forge your own path," I said.

"I just don't feel like I can."

I never knew that about Mira. I always knew that she was stubborn. She was the most rebellious of all of our family, but I never knew this about her. This deep, primal longing. Maybe I don't know my older sister as well as I thought.

July 7

The world is really closing in. And it hasn't even been a week since everything has changed. Is this what life is going to be like forever?

Mom said that I couldn't go to the community garden.

"Why not?" I asked.

"It's too dangerous out there," she said. "It's not good for your lungs—"

"I'll wear an air mask," I blurted out.

"I'm not going to let your lungs get destroyed," she said. "Go and spend some time with May or Mira."

"I'm already spending time with you guys. I have to live in this house all day, all night!"

"Figure out a way to get used to it," Mom said. "No one is leaving the house."

I feel like Mom and Dad just don't understand me. It's suffocating staying at home. With me sharing a bedroom with Mira and May to Grandpa and Grandma living in our house, it's like there's no privacy or any room for me to breathe. And I don't know, but I almost feel guilty about thinking about this because there are people who are facing a whole lot worse, and I'm here complaining that my house doesn't have any space.

The whole day was boring. Only Dad's phone has power. The rest of ours have slowly died over the past week. May's was first, then Mira's, Mom's, and finally mine last night. Without much sunlight, the solar panels rarely charge anything, and the solar paneled phone packet charger doesn't work anymore since the sunlight has been so scarce.

Grandma and Grandpa have been taking the lead for cooking ever since they've been here. Today, they made a type of sweet bun using beets. Normally, they're made with taro, but there was none, so we had to deal with purplish colored beets. The buns weren't bad, a little bitter and tough, and I wish we had taro. But it's hard to complain because I'm always hungry. I wish we had electricity and the internet and everything. Then I could order a pizza or something.

I've been thinking about the wish list a lot. I've got some ideas, but I don't know if they're possible. Writing a book is something that I've thought about, but that seems boring and impossible, especially during the summer. First kiss, losing my virginity, and those other love stuff feel too cliche, and I don't know if I'm all into those types of things. Breaking the law, but I've done it. Visiting foreign places, doing something daring and new, experiencing the world all feel like pipe dreams right now. I keep shooting down any idea that I come up with.

So I decided to ask Mira about it. "Do you have any dreams?"

"Do you mean daydream and nightmare stuff," she said. "Or dream dreams."

"Dream dreams," I said. "Like future stuff."

"I mean, yeah," she said. "Finding love, traveling the world, having a good time with life. That kind of stuff."

"But do you think you'll ever be able to accomplish them with everything that's been going on?" I asked.

"Probably," she said. "I could modify a couple of them to accomplish them, but yeah."

She continued. "What's all of this future dream stuff about anyways?"

"I, I was just—"

"Neal, don't lie to me," she said. "I'm your sister. You can talk to me."

I didn't know what to do. I don't really like to tell Mira stuff about my personal life, but if I lied again, more cracks would form between us. So I let her in a little. "It's just something Charles and I were talking about."

"Do you want to accomplish your dreams?"

"I'd like to," I said. "But I don't even know what I want. I feel like everything that I think of just feels ingenuine or impossible to achieve."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know what I want," I said. "I mean, how do you even know that this is what I want to try to accomplish."

"Listen to your heart."

"Literally don't understand that phrase."

"Like if you go into the future and look back onto yourself, what would you say to your previous self to do? To experience?"

"That just feels like regret."

"Regrets are dreams people realized too late."

And that line stuck with me. I don't know why, but it just did. What do I want right now? What do I want for my future? What do I want to do that I'll regret never doing when I'm sick and dying?

And the answer is still: I don't know.

July 8

I caught May doing something she shouldn't have, but I don't know if I should tell Mom or Dad or anyone. And the nightmare has come back.

The sky was ashy gray, a deep and dark one, as I splashed around shallow waters. I looked down and saw— not sand— but ash between my toes. The water was murky gray with a tinge of blue. It began to snow, small grey flecks drifting from the sky and touching the water.

I began to run, but the sea was endless. My legs felt like syrup. Every step that I took felt like a step backwards. The snow came down in flurries, whipping gales of gray. A person was calling out, but I couldn't hear anything. I looked backwards and there was a shadow of a volcano in the distance.

There was a boom, and a bright flash of fiery goldens and oranges lighting up the sky. Then there was this steady rumble that turned into a roar. I saw it coming, and I ran. But I felt like I was in quicksand and all that I could do was watch. The roar grew louder, and a wall of gray appeared on the horizon. It grew closer and closer until it hit me like a wall of bricks, and I woke up sweaty and shaking.

I went to the kitchen, and that's when I saw May. "What are you doing?" I asked.

"Nothing," she said, but it was pretty clear that she was doing something. She was in front of the pantry.

"Don't lie," I said. "What are you actually doing though?"

"Fine," she said. "I'm hungry okay. I'm just grabbing a can of pears. It's not a big deal."

"We could die if we run out of food. That's why we're on rations, so we'll always have enough."

"Literally everything is going to be fine," she said. "Stop being so serious."

"Look outside," I said and pointed to the window. "The sky is filled with ash. Food won't be able to grow without sunlight and we'll start running out of food and begin to starve. Rationing is the only way to prevent that."

"The government will figure things out. It has to. There's other ways to grow food. They could make giant greenhouses."

"Without oil or gas, no machines run. We won't be able to build anything to feed the amount of people in this country," I said. "I'm telling Mom and Dad about this."

"Then I'll tell them about the time that you skipped piano practice for two months during the summer."

"I'll tell them about the time that you got an F on your geometry quiz."

"I'll tell them about the time that you—"

"Fine," I said. "Congratulations. You win. No more mutual blackmailing."

"Great," she said. "So can I go now?"

"Just think about what I said, please."

"Neal, stop worrying so much. Everything will go back to normal. The government has to make it work."

May grabbed a bag of chips lying in the pantry and opened it. "You want some?"

"No," I said. "I'm going back to sleep."

I went back to sleep. The sky was very dark, and it was easy to pretend that it was nighttime. I was pretty tired in the morning, and I hoped that the nightmare wouldn't come back. It didn't, and I woke up sometime in the middle of the afternoon for lunch.

The air smelled good like actual food. I went out of my room and heard the sizzling of a pan. After a month or so of eating canned food straight from the can, someone was cooking actual food.

"Good morning sleeping beauty," Dad said.

"What are you guys making?"

"Omelet," he said. "Your Mom found some dried egg whites in the pantry. They're going to be a bit white, but hopefully they'll taste alright."

"Why are you guys making this?" I asked. "Did someone die or something?"

Dad chuckled. "Nothing happened. Just good for morale."

"Okay," I said. "Then, what do you want from me?"

"Nothing," Dad said. "Just eat up and enjoy."

"Okay," I said and then ate the omelet. It tasted a bit strange, but that's probably because of the color. The stark whiteness of the omelet was unnerving. I was going to go back to my room, but then Dad told me to call Mira and May to the dining table.

"Why?" I asked.

"Just do it," he said.

So I called Mira and May to the dining table, and we sat there awkwardly for a good moment while Dad rummaged through some old closet. He pulled out a skinny box. "We're playing Monopoly!"

"Why?" I asked.

"Family bonding activity."

"I'm out of here," May said.

"May," he said. "Sit down at the table."

"Family bonding activity. More like dictator mandated torture," she said. "We can't even play Monopoly. It takes too long to finish."

"Are there any other board games?" I asked.

"I'll go check," Mira said. "There might be some in our room."

Dad looked into the closet. "Scrabble?" he asked.

"I literally don't want to play word games in summer," May said.

"Stop complaining May," he said. "I don't like this attitude."

"I think the biggest issue is that it needs so much manual counting because there isn't a computer to just add everything up," I said, trying to stem the argument.

"Fine," Dad said. "We'll play something else."

He rummaged through the closet for a couple more minutes and muttered underneath his breath about all the random stuff that was just lying around. Mira came back with Sorry! When we opened up the box, there were only four colors of pieces. Dad didn't want to play the board game because he wanted Mom to play too, but Mira, May, and I outvoted him. Mom said that she didn't mind and joined her parents in the guest bedroom.

We laid out the pieces. "I'm going first," May said.

No one objected, so we let her draw the first card. It was a one, so she moved her piece out of the starting location. She drew a couple more ones and twos after while Dad and Mira only drew one of them. I had the worst luck. None of my cards were one or two.

"I give up," I said. "This is hopeless."

"Ha, ha," May said. "Take an 'L'"

"Someday, something good will happen to you," Mira said.

"I thought we chose this game because it wouldn't take us days to finish," I replied.

"Whatever you get on your next card will bring you out of jail," Dad said. "Free pass."

I managed to get a twelve. "If you win this game," May said. "Remember that you cheated your way to a victory."

"It was allowed cheating," I said. "Equity for the unfortunate."

We drew cards and moved pieces around. I managed to knock some of Mira's pieces to the start, but it didn't matter. May had such a great head start that she managed to get all of her pieces into the end and won pretty easily. "I won," she crowed.

"We need a rematch," I said. "But without the rigged deck. I'm shuffling this time."

"Should we continue," Dad said. "Or start a new game."

"New one," Mira said. "I'm not going to even get close to winning since someone kept knocking all of my pieces out."

"Sorry," I said. "Ha. Ha. You get the pun."

"Shame," May said. "Never say that again."

Just as Dad was moving the pieces back, there was a knock on the door. Dad went to answer it, and he and another man spoke for a minute or so before Dad said that he had to go to a community meeting. Apparently, it was very important. Mira and I cleaned up the table and then we went and did other stuff— mostly laying around and doing nothing since there was absolutely nothing to do.

Dad came back late, sometime around eight. Mira and May were asleep, but I was still awake even though it was dead silent outside— no crickets, no cars, nothing. I wanted a glass of water and grabbed a cup and started walking towards the kitchen when I heard Mom and Dad talking.

"—cutting off natural gas," Dad said.

"They can't do that to us," Mom said. "There's no way anyone would allow this."

"The council just doesn't have enough money to maintain the pipelines and the state is running out of power to keep the factories on."

"What about the water purification plants," Mom said. "Or sewage."

"There are rumors that they're all closing in October," Dad said. "They're still finalizing the dates, but that's it."

"How are we going to survive?" Mom asked. "It's getting colder every day. How are we going to keep ourselves warm? How are we even going to not starve? If the water plants are shutting down, they might stop the food deliveries. We don't have an infinite amount of food, and we can't grow any more."

"We'll figure it out. We can cut down trees and I'm sure the fireplace will work. There's a river nearby and if we run out of food, I'm sure we will be able to figure it out," Dad replied. "We will be able to."

"What if this is too much?" Mom said. "What if—"

"Don't say that," Dad said. "We have to keep hope."

I began walking down the hallway loudly. It felt too strange to listen to their conversation. I felt like I was eavesdropping on a private, intimate conversation. "What are you doing up so late?" Dad asked.

"Getting water," I said. "It's not even that late. It's eight-nine o'clock right now."

Mom and Dad stared at me strangely as I filled up my water glass. I think that they know I heard their conversation. I drank some water and went into my room. Everything seems to be getting worse every day. Hopefully the ash is gone tomorrow.

July 9

The riots exploded around the city. I don't think they'll ever stop.

It happened later in the day after Dad took all of us to the food handouts. He and Mom had a big argument about it.

"We need to bring them along," Dad said. "The officials aren't going to be so lenient anymore. They'll want us to bring everyone along to make sure that we actually have six people in our family. Some people might be lying about the number of people in their family, so we have to bring everyone along to prove that we, in fact, do have six people in our household."

"No," Mom said. "It's too dangerous. Breathing in ash is like breathing in glass. It will shred our children's lungs. We'll kill them."

"That's why we have the masks," Dad said. "To protect them!"

"No," Mom said. "It's too dangerous."

"What's dangerous is letting our children starve if we don't get food—"

"But we've got food," Mom said. "Plenty of food to last us for a long time. What's the point of even getting food if we've got plenty and the food that we get won't even last us a long time? Why risk our children's health?"

"Because every can of food we get is another day Mira, May, and Neal avoid starvation!" Dad said. "Another day to survive if things never get back to normal."

"We can't keep them indoors forever," Dad continued. "Most of the ash has settled down or mixed with the dirt or is too high in the atmosphere to even threaten to harm us. We've got the air masks, we're safe."

Mom looked genuinely conflicted. She wanted to keep us safe, but Dad's arguments made sense. It was important to get food, just in case things don't go back to normal. What's the point of keeping us from breathing ash and harming our health a little bit if we die of starvation first. In the end, she chose to make us all go, including Grandma and Grandpa, and we all had to wear air masks. Grandpa didn't want to wear them, but Mom yelled at him and eventually even he put them on.

Mom made us walk slowly, careful not to make us breathe too hard. I wanted to ask her about the way back when we'd have to carry all those bags filled with food, but that was a problem for later.

The sky was bleak gray, and the streets were empty. We passed by some shops and stores, but nothing was open. All of them were dark on the inside and barren, except for a smattering of tables, chairs, counters lying around. The only signs of life were when I started approaching the town hall. There were people huddling together in a jumbled line.

It was shorter than the line during the start of summer. Most of the people probably moved on to better places. There were at least ten guards standing around the town hall. That's even more than there were during the beginning of summer when there were much more people. I guess the ash fall is scaring people and making them more desperate.

"It's cold," May said.

It was pretty cool outside, not quite cold but definitely cool. I'd say around the low sixties. It felt like fall even though it was summer. The temperature should go up a bit since we're approaching the peak of summer heat, but after that, who knows how low the temperature will drop. I wonder if people in Minnesota are already feeling the effects of winter already. It doesn't get too warm over there in the summer, so I bet that it's cold over there.

A gust of wind kicked up the ash. "Look at the snow," Mira said.

"Too bad we can't make snowballs out of them. That would be fun," I said.

"Don't touch it," Mom said.

"Live a little Mom," Mira said. "We had to touch all this ash when we had to clean up the garden."

"I was talking to Neal," Mom said. "You can never be too careful."

We were approaching the front of the line when small groups of people began forming off to the sides. Some people were wearing ski masks and others had signs. I couldn't read out what they said, but I'm sure that it had to do with the food giveaways. "Hopefully this line moves quicker," Dad said. "People are gathering all around us."

"Maybe we should leave," Mom said. "We can always pick it up another day."

"There is no other day," Dad said. "Today or never. We've just got to hope that everything doesn't go bad."

As we crawled towards the front of the line, more people began crowding the courtyard. The guards were carrying big guns and they moved to try to control the crowd, but I think it just made the people more unruly. Dad moved behind us and tried hustling us towards the front.

But the line moved slowly, and the crowd only started to grow. There were rowdy shouts and cries. Dad looked more nervous while Mom tried staying calm. She made Grandpa and Grandma stay near us, and we formed this tight bundle. "Why are all these people here?" May asked.

"Because some people were less prepared than we were, so they want more food," Mom said. "Don't stare at them, and let's just keep moving."

The crowd unfurled a large poster about the city council people. They called them pigs for hogging all the food from the people. I don't know how valid those statements are, but it does seem likely that the city council will be well fed. I feel guilty all of a sudden. I know that we need food in case things never return back to normal, but at the same time, our family is well off in terms of food. It makes me feel like I am stealing food from someone who needs it more than I do.

"Should we ever be here?" I asked Mom.

"We're almost at the front of the line," she said and craned her neck. "Another family and then we'll get our food."

"I'm not talking about that—"

"We'll be safe," Mom said. "Just a few minutes and then we're out."

"Can you let me finish Mom?" I asked. "We've got more food than—"

"Keep your voice down," Mom said. "Do you want everyone to know?"

"We've got a lot of food and some of these people don't. We're, like, stealing food from them."

"No we aren't," Mom said. "When everything gets worse, we're going to be the ones needing food more than them. Family comes first."

At that moment, we got to the front of the line. Dad pulled out our residential papers and told us to all come to the front of the line. The lady counted our family and gave us six bags. Mom passed me a bag, and I noticed something strange. The bag was extremely light.

Mom noticed it too, and we both looked into our bags. There was a box of cereal and a couple cans of fruit and mixed vegetables along with some air masks. I remember the first time that I got the bags. They were bursting with food. Now, they were barely half filled.

"That's not enough food for our family," Mom said.

"It's all that we have," the lady said.

"But how are we going to survive on this for a week."

"Look, ma'am. I'm sorry, but that's all that we have," she said. "There are other people waiting behind you."

Mom and Dad picked up their bags and told us to come with them. We passed by the mob. I could see why they were angry. The food we got could maybe last a person half a week. The people are starving and there's nothing that anyone can do about that.

There were more people gathered around the town hall. There was a person on the megaphone— not the same as the first time— telling people to disperse. Police cars sped into the plaza, sirens blaring, but I think that just made people angrier. People started yelling about why the police cars had gas and chants broke out. "We need food. We need food."

"Don't look," Mom said. "Let's go."

Mom and Dad hustled us away from the town hall and we began walking home. Grandma was having some leg issues, so we had to walk slower. I took my eyes off from the crowd for a second, but immediately looked back. I just couldn't not look.

People had signs with many things. Some drew the council as pigs, sitting on piles of food. Other people drew signs asking for food. Some just wrote anti-government signs. But all of them were united on the idea that they needed food.

We were crossing the road across from the town hall when the chants grew even louder, clashing with the person speaking on the megaphone. The whole plaza area was in chaos. There was smoke wafting around. I don't know if it was tear gas or people burning paper or something else, but it was clear that everyone was agitated. Mom had that look on her face like she was scared and feeling brave at the same time. "Mira," she said. "Take May and Neal home and go as fast as you can. Things are getting more dangerous. I need you guys to be safe."

"Your Dad and I will walk with Grandma and Grandpa. We'll be ten minutes behind you."

"What about the food bags?" Mira asked.

"That's a good idea. Here," Mom said. "Take ours. If you feel like you're walking too hard, go slower. I don't want you guys inhaling too much ash."

"Okay," Mira said. "You sure you guys will be okay?"

"Yes," Dad said. "Now go."

We walked as quickly as we could while Mom and Dad walked slowly with Grandma and Grandpa. It was only two minutes after we separated that I heard some popping, like firecrackers. "Are those gunshots?" I asked.

"Mom, Dad," Mira said. "We should head back to see if they're okay."

"But we've got to keep going," May said. "Mom literally told us to."

"But they could be close to what's happening. Don't we have to make sure that they're safe?"

"They're going to be alright," May said. "We're far away from the town hall. Going back is not going to help anyone. Mom said go and we should go."

I could hear faint sirens and car horns blaring in the background. Mira and May were still arguing about whether to go back or to trudge forwards.

"We've got to go," I said.

"What did you say?" Mira and May said at the same time.

"We should head home," I said.

"I told you so," May said.

"Why?" Mira said. "We need to go back to stick together. They're all alone by themselves—"

"Grandma and Grandpa are with them," I said.

"Two old people don't count. It's dangerous out there," Mira said. "Who knows what's going to happen to them?"

"Going back isn't going to help anyone," I said. "Adding two teens and a college person isn't going to help the group."

"But it could," Mira said. "We don't know—"

"We need to have hope," I said. "And just trust that Mom and Dad head back."

"It's what they would want us to do," I said.

Mira looked like she didn't want to go, but we just had to. We had all of the food. So we walked quickly to our house and started packing up the food into the pantry. There were more things in there. I noticed a small bottle of iodine and a guide about volcanic ash.

After we put the food away, we looked at the guide. Mira took some towels and put them near the windows and back door. She looked focused, like this was some math quiz, not just a menial task of wetting and placing towels. I think she was trying not to think about Mom.

Five minutes passed, then ten. Mira began looking scared. I was too. I think even May was a bit pale. But Mom and Dad made it back after half an hour. Mira went and hugged Mom. "What happened?" she asked.

"There was a little delay," Mom said. "But we're fine."

"What about the riots?" I asked.

"It's bad," Dad said. "The police didn't stop them—"

"Did they shoot them?" May asked.

"Rubber bullets only, I think," Dad replied. "They're only getting worse. Some of the stores back in town are getting smashed and looted."

"Are we going to get looted?" I asked.

"No," Dad said. "We're far away. I'll stay up tonight to make sure everything goes alright."

"For now," Mom added. "Let's eat dinner. Today's been an exhausting day. Everyone can get two cans of food. A special reward."

We ate around the dining table awkwardly. There wasn't much to talk about anyways. It's like there's so much happening, and at the same time nothing feels like it's happening. Mom and Dad made us go to sleep early. Dad is supposed to stay up to keep watch.

Will everything get better? We're going to lose gas. We're going to lose water. We're slowly going to run out of food. Everything feels hopeless.

But for some reason, I feel some hope. I mean Mom and Dad made it back home, so maybe the world can be better. That sounded a bit strange and now that I'm thinking about it, it doesn't really make sense, but I don't really know how to put it into words. I just have a strange feeling that maybe things could get not worse.