Wednesday, August 31, 2:00 PM. Amy.

We’re getting ready for our big move to the farm. It’s going to be hard. This has been our home for over a decade and now it feels like our one link with any kind of normalcy. But we have to. The water situation here is bad. We need more space for livestock and farming. And the neighborhood is depressing, empty and forlorn.

The farm is gorgeous. It’s the right kind of place to build a new life. I guess that leaves it to us to be the right kind of people to live there.

Brewer and the kids are spending the day getting it ready. They’re cleaning out the house, making it fresh for us.

I’m a little nervous at home alone.

For the first couple of weeks I couldn’t handle being alone. I was going crazy being around other people all day, every day. But I couldn’t face separation. The kids would be in their rooms and I would think, What if they’re not really there? What if I go to check and they’re all missing? So I would check, and of course they’d be there. This happened almost every day, sometimes every few hours.

Brewer could see I was struggling. He said I had to face the fear. I knew he was right. He suggested I try to be alone for a few minutes at a time. He took the kids on a walk around the block for five minutes while I stayed here and tried to read. Those were the longest five minutes of my life. I was petrified. I started to believe they would never come back. I held on to Coolidge and Louis the whole time, and they were looking up at me thinking, “What’s wrong with this woman?” Then I heard Claire’s laughter echoing down the street, and everything was okay.

I worked being separated for longer. I took walks by myself, five minutes, ten minutes. Brewer took the kids to the playground for fifteen minutes. The next day they stayed out half an hour, then the next day a full hour. I’ve slowly grown to be more at ease with being apart. I’m starting to believe that we, at least, aren’t going to disappear anywhere.

So today I’m alone almost the whole day, getting this place ready for the move.

I did take them their lunch at noon. On the way over I was nearly in a panic, wondering whether they’d be there, doubting they’d be there. I raced over in the Corolla, burst out from the trees that surround the farm, peered across the field, saw them working beside the house. I stopped the car and sat blubbering for a few minutes. Brewer knew what had happened but I don’t think the kids did. After lunch it was hard to leave, but I did it.

Now I’m back home alone, expecting they’ll get back later. There’s an edge of worry. But I am enjoying my solitude.

We’re doing better as a family. Not great, but better.

Garrett has never seemed particularly upset by all this, but maybe he was. How would we know? He seems positively charged up about the farm, talking about the creek and the forest and his room. He’s a huge help to Brewer. He’s getting tan from being outdoors so much—we all are—and growing muscles and lifting things he could never have lifted a month ago.

It’s been about a month, hasn’t it? A month since the Vanishing, since we’ve seen a non-Wilcox.

Trevor seems fine. He hasn’t cried in several days. He likes to use his math talents to help Brewer calculate things. Brewer will be working on a plan and say, “Trevor, if we’re burning 3 gallons of propane per hour and we have 800 gallons in the tank, how long until the tank is empty?” and Trevor will think a second and say, “Eleven days.” It’s pretty amazing for a third grader. A would-be third grader. I need to start homeschooling soon.

Last week Garrett and Trevor were getting on each others’ nerves and fighting quite a bit. I think they both felt responsible for the ham radio, were a little competitive with it, and when they couldn’t contact anyone it became a frustration and embarrassment to them. But then, none of us were doing very well last week.

Our weathervane, Claire, has stopped talking like a baby and is mostly back to her usual bubbly self. She loves taking care of the cows, feeding and milking them, and they adore her. She can’t wait to get the horses moved over.

Here’s another sentence I never thought I’d write: video games have all but disappeared. The kids were getting bored of their old games. They picked up some new ones from Walmart, but then barely played them. There’s so much else going on that keeps them busy and engaged, important things that they know really help us all. There’s no one at school to talk about games with, no gamers to watch on YouTube. We play board games a lot as a family, but electronics don’t have the appeal they used to have.

Brewer is all business these days. Last week he was faraway and cool to me. He was frustrated with the false alarm with the house fire and torn about whether to go out on the road or settle here. He didn’t say much, even for Brewer. He didn’t touch me, didn’t try to hold my hand. Things got better after he threw the booze out. He seemed to liven up, to smile again. We made up that night. I can tell he hasn’t really forgiven me, but he’s back to tolerating me, back to grinning-and-bearing it. He’s more affectionate.

This morning he told me I was beautiful. Only he can say the word that way: shyly and yet with a kind of growl. It was demonstrably false—my hair was a mess, and I was covered in muck after spraying down the kids’ boots—but nice of him to say it anyway. Then he turned on his heel, got the kids in the truck and left for the farm without another word. No, I don’t actually think it was a snub. Once he’s ready to get the day going, that’s all he’s thinking about. All business, getting the farm ready.

As for me, I’m uneasy, but getting used to being uneasy; discontent, but growing content with that. Sometimes when they go out and I’m all alone here and starting to get bored, the front door will open and the sunlight will blaze white and it’s Alan that comes sauntering in. Alan, not Brewer. I kick him out, kick, kick, kick, as soon as I see him, and he vanishes. But then I’m a little sad that he’s gone. And then I’m ashamed that I’m sad.

It’s going to take a long time to get used to how things are now. We’ve had to say goodbye to so much so suddenly. I’m not ready to say goodbye to this house too. But we have to, we have to adapt. If we’re going to make it, we have to change.