Sunday, August 7, 2:30 PM. Brewer.

I’m still telling about all the things we learned and did yesterday, Saturday.

In the afternoon we sat on the patio and tried to figure things out. It was hot. We were fanning ourselves with manila folders and mouse pads.

Amy asked, “If the world really has shut down, what do we do about food and water?”

I asked her what food was left. She said that almost everything in the fridge and the freezer had spoiled. She’d thrown it out. We still had cereal and chips and juice drinks. We also had soup and canned vegetables and some rice and other odds and ends, “But I don’t know how we’re supposed to cook them,” she said.

Trevor said he knew where the camp stove was and would help get it ready.

We didn’t think we would starve yet, not for five or six days anyway. But it would be nice to have some meat, something substantial after all that hiking.

“I haven’t had anything but granola and chips since yesterday,” said Claire.

“And what about the heat?” Amy asked. “It’s unpleasant enough now, but August could really get dangerous.”

We decided Garrett and I should go out again. We’d look for gas and food. We’d bring home a generator too, hopefully one that could handle the air conditioning unit.

I told them to conserve water and to fill up and cover the bathtubs. “No baths or showers,” I said, and was answered with groans. We hadn’t been decently clean for a week, and even the younger ones were starting to notice. “But,” I continued, “you can take soap and shampoo over to the Smiths’ pool.”

Amy was horrified. “We can’t just waltz over there and…” She was going to object to us trespassing, I think, but she let it drop.

I said, “I think we’re going to be doing a whole lot of trespassing and stealing in the days to come. I’m not saying we should break the rules. I want you to do the right thing always, now as ever. But the rules have changed. If someone comes from the government, from somewhere there are still people, I don’t think they’ll blame us for taking what we need from missing people. We won’t take more than we need. If our neighbors come back, great. I don’t think they’ll blame us either, and if they do we’ll do our best to make it right.”

“Are they coming back, Daddy?” asked Claire. She had her ankle up on the patio table, wrapped in a splint we’d put together. “Do you really think they’ll come back?”

I didn’t know what to say. I looked at Amy. She looked as uncertain as I was.

I told Claire, “I don’t think so, honey. I don’t know what happened, but it’s big. I don’t know how many people are left, but in Dallas anyway, and Fort Worth, and probably all the way to Colorado, we’re not sure we’ve seen anyone but us. Whatever was big enough to…move all those people is too big for things to just snap back to normal. We need to be ready for this situation to last a very long time.”

Garrett and I took the neighbor’s truck (his keys were hanging up in the kitchen), hitched his trailer to it, and drove to Home Depot. We broke in—the alarm didn’t go off—and took the largest generator we could find. We brought back eight big water jugs, some extension cords, and tools.

There were five or six cars in the parking lot. I broke into an F-150—the alarm did go off—opened the tank and siphoned out enough gas to fill our truck. I broke into another pickup and filled six 5-gallon gas cans. It was hot work, especially after a week of cool mountain temperatures, but it felt good to secure some essentials.

Over at Walmart we went up and down the vacant aisles, filling up two large baskets. Most of the produce section is rotten, but the potatoes and onions are fine and the apples and oranges, though hot, may be edible for a while yet. The meat section stank to high heaven and there was nothing to eat there. But we found canned corned beef and Spam and tuna, and even that will be a treat at this point.

That’s pretty much how our Saturday went. We were all in shock yesterday. We still are. Nobody slept good.