She knew each unmoved landmark: Car driven into garage at ten o’clock. Body of man in pajamas on upstairs balcony straight ahead. The blue Volvo with the door open would appear on the next block. Right next to the house that burned down, an abandoned fire truck, its lights long dead, still sitting outside. The hose tangled forward and never retracted, the bodies of the firefighters MIA.

Many of the homes had been searched for supplies. The dead did not need cereal boxes and canned goods. They didn’t need their flashlights or their supplies of Ibuprofen. Darla never judged the homes she raided. A house four blocks away from the Kings sported an obese man who died in his bathtub. Naked and forever at rest in discolored water. Six homes down from the naked man was a beautiful, well-landscaped bungalow that turned out to be owned by a hoarder. Darla didn’t make it five feet into the house before unleashing a terrible avalanche of boxes and paper bags filled with garbage.

The lives of the dead were not interesting to her. She didn’t care what they were reading when they died. She didn’t care if they were alone or if a family died together. She noticed, but didn’t care, if there were animals left unburied, or tributes to animals who passed before their owners—immortalized for their short lives before anyone realized that they would follow closely behind.

No, Darla only cared if the dead had something to offer her.

Scanning the street, Darla saw nothing out of the ordinary. Nor did she hear a car or a truck. The distinct roll of an engine was absent. She ambled in the open, unafraid, for she was convinced that the new owner of their non-perishable supplies would not be stupid enough to stay where he could be found.

She checked each vehicle with her memory. Black mini-van at green house, unmoved. Red truck at tan house. Unmoved.

Then Darla stopped.

A rumble. White noise, but distinct. A car was running and from somewhere relatively close. The strange noise called to her and she tried to place it. Darla wandered through a yard, waltzing past an uncovered boat, the house with the open slider, the family of four all together in one of the back bathrooms, like they were hunkering down for a tornado instead of a virus. She emerged on one of the next streets over and scanned the familiar landmarks.

Darla froze.

She looked down at the ground and then back up again, as if the truck with its small utility trailer attached to the hitch was just a figment of her imagination. Four houses down, the truck idled. It couldn’t be real. But there it was—the door on the trailer raised up halfway and the inside fully stocked with their stolen food. Opening and closing her mouth like a fish, shocked that it would just be sitting here out in the open, Darla adopted a steady stance and brought her right arm straight out in front of her; her gun trained at the back of the trailer.

Then she lowered her gun and took three giant steps to the side to get a better look. Darla’s mouth dropped open and she let out an involuntary gasp of surprise.

“You’ve got to me kidding me,” she scoffed. And then she felt like a fool for not thinking of it sooner. How had they not assumed it before? How could the possibility have eluded them? “Of course.”

Written in swoopy letters across the side was: From Up Above Tours. Beautiful Adventures Daily.

From inside a two-story house, Darla saw a rustle of curtains, and so she waited. After a few more minutes, a tall man emerged carrying a case of beer and nothing else. He whistled as he walked, moving his small haul with ease, and unaware that he was being watched. It was easy to see the resemblance even from a distance—the same sandy-blonde hair, the same lumbering gait. He sported no gun that Darla could see and she knew that shooting at him would be like firing upon a sitting duck.

Still, the duck stole their food.

She was conflicted.

The man tossed the beer into the back of the utility trailer and then closed the door, taking the time to latch it closed. Then as he started to walk back to the bed of the truck, Darla took long strides forward. Still, he had not noticed her. Darla realized that she was not dealing with a brave mastermind; she was fairly certain this overlooked member of their community was just an inept thief.

“Hey!” Darla finally called after him, unwilling to let him climb into his truck without acknowledgment of her appearance.

He halted and then turned. His eyes locked into Darla’s and he looked like he was about to pee himself as he registered her gun and her slow approach.

“You have some things that belong to me,” she called and her voice echoed down the street. Me me me me.

He brought up his right hand and waved once in reply.

Darla took her free hand and waved once back. “Yeah, okay,” she whispered to herself. “Whatcha gonna do now, huh?”

Before she could shout at him again, the man scrambled into the cab of his truck, put the car into drive, and screeched off down the street. The trailer swung and bobbed as he made his hasty escape, barely missing parked cars and mailboxes. Darla merely stood and watched him flee—he took a hard right, and then gunned it down the next street over. His panic was evident in the erratic escape, the noise of his truck fading into the distance.

She smiled.

He was heading home.

And she was pretty certain that he would be confident they couldn’t find him there.

Except, she knew exactly where he lived.

Clicking the safety on her gun, Darla slipped it into the holster, and stood in the street for a long, reflective minute, before turning back around and walking with quickened strides back to the King House.

It was going to be a strange afternoon.

Ethan made a face. And Spencer looked confused. Only Joey seemed to sense Darla’s excitement.

Darla had called the troops together in the den and relayed what she experienced.

“Wait, wait,” Spencer said, raising his hand. “You know this guy?”

“No,” Darla said, exasperated. “Grant…the kid you kept locked up in your school with Ethan’s sister? The one who went with her to Nebraska? Pretty sure this is his dad. Looked just like him and was driving the trailer we pulled a giant deflated hot air balloon out of.”

“Why didn’t you just shoot him?” Spencer asked. “Easiest way to get our food back.”

“I didn’t want to shoot him,” Darla snapped. “He wasn’t hostile. I know where he lives. Maybe we can avoid killing the small population that is left. Just a simple thought. Besides, I got the impression he wasn’t a threat. If he’s not dangerous, then he’s just stupid.”

“Great,” Ainsley said from the corner. “He and Joey can be buds. We can hum the Benny Hill theme song whenever they try to do anything together.”

“The Benny Hill song?” Ethan asked from the corner.

Ainsley looked at Ethan and rolled her eyes, “You know, Yakety Sax? That bumbling anthem that always plays when clowns are pouring out of a clown car…or during a clip-show when they show a montage of people getting hit in the balls?”

“I’m so glad you guys think so highly of me,” Joey chimed in.

Doctor Krause moved the conversation back on track. “What’s your plan, then?” She moved herself over to Ethan and attempted to do a round of vitals, but Ethan swatted her away; defeated, she sat down on the side of the couch next to him and waited. She looked between everyone and said, “Well?”

“Ambush. We’ll surprise him…drive our food back. Gloria and Teddy stay back with Ethan. We arm Ainsley—take her for appearance only. Beef up our numbers. We won’t even load her gun.”

“For appearance?” Ainsley cringed. “If it’s appearance you’re after, why don’t you dress my mom up in some leggings and take her instead?”