Sunday, August 14, 11:00 PM. Amy.

I almost wish there were zombies. At least then there would be something to look at, some movement, some activity, some change. They promised us zombies at the apocalypse and they couldn’t even deliver that. It’s the silence, the stillness, the loneliness that’s crushing.

Tonight we walked to the top of the hill. The kids biked. We watched the sunset. It was a bright orange one, the way Texas is supposed to make them and sometimes does. It was gorgeous and huge, like grandma’s quilt being unfolded and lain over our shoulders.

We came back down in the blue-gray darkness. The kids went ahead. As we drew near the house it looked cheerful and welcoming with the porch lights on and the ceiling fans lazily turning. A golden light shone from our windows, glowing on the bushes and the lawn. The air was perfectly still.

The kids were already inside. Claire and Trevor would be brushing their teeth, getting ready for bed. Garrett would be disappearing into his Nintendo. Our two cars were parked on the driveway. It all felt so normal.

Then my eyes traveled along the street. The night had already grown dark and our neighborhood was a void of blackness. There were no lights, no street lamps. I could hardly tell what was a house or a bush or a tree. Except for the buzz of the generators there was silence in all directions. Above the town, where the glow of Dallas should have been, was the rising Milky Way, sharp as broken glass, silhouetted against the roof lines. I turned around in place and gripped Brewer’s arm to steady myself in the dark. Everywhere we looked was only shadow and star.

Our house, with all its suburban normalcy, was like a ship on a quiet sea.

But how wide a sea?

And how long before the storms?