Susan Pfeffer: This World We Live In

What if there’s no one there?

Mom made Matt and me eat breakfast this morning. She said she and Jon would eat later, but we all knew that meant Jon would eat and Mom would forget to.

We decided to take our bikes, riding them when we could and pulling them along when we had to. We used to bike into town last summer, but I stopped once I started getting scared about what I might see. Then, after the blizzard, we couldn’t bike anyway.

There was pavement for most of the trip. Some places, though, the rain and the snowmelt had left a layer of ice, and we walked and skidded there. Both of us fell more than once, but neither of us broke any bones.

That’s what constitutes a good trip. No broken bones.

“City Hall may not be open,” I said to Matt. “I think it’s only open on Fridays.”

“Then we’ll go back on Friday,” Matt said. “If it’s closed then, we’ll figure out what to do.”

“We’ll have to leave,” I said. “Maybe we should anyway. Find a school where Jon can learn algebra.”

“Mom wants us to stay for as long as possible,” Matt said.

“If there’s no food, we can’t stay,” I said.

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know,” Matt said.

“I’m sorry,” I said, even though I wasn’t. Sometimes I think Mom and Matt make all the decisions and don’t care what I think.

With the four of us cooped up in the same room together day and night, I don’t know when Mom and Matt have the time to whisper conspiratorially about my future, but I guess they still do. They probably talk about Jon’s future in algebra while they’re at it.

“I don’t know if I agree with Mom,” Matt said, which I knew was his way of apologizing. “But if we do decide to move, we’re better off waiting until summer.”

Summer used to be a time of blue and yellow and green. Now I guess it’ll be less gray. It’s like no broken bones. You keep your expectations low, and “horrible” is down to “merely rotten.”

“Where would we go?” I asked. “Have you and Mom talked about that?”

“Pittsburgh,” Matt said. “At least for a start. That seems to be the closest place we know is still functioning.”

“Do you think there are places where things are actually okay?” I asked. “I know it’s gray everywhere and cold, but maybe there are places with food for everyone. Running water and electricity. Furnaces. Schools and hospitals.”

“And twenty-four-hour pizza delivery,” Matt said. “Think big.”

“I bet there are places like that,” I said. “Towns set up for politicians and rich people and celebrities.”

“If there are, we don’t qualify,” Matt said. “But we know there are people living in Pittsburgh. If we have to, we’ll resettle there.”

Mom gets the Pittsburgh radio station almost every night, so we hear more about it than anyplace else. Mostly they read the lists of the dead, but they also talk about food handouts and curfews and martial law.

And I know it’s dumb, but we look awful. We’re thin and no matter how often we wash, our faces, our hands, our clothes are gray. A whole city of people looking like us sounds like a horror movie.

“Do we have enough food now?” I asked. “If we can’t get any more, and we have to move, say tomorrow, do we have enough food to get there? Pittsburgh’s got to be two hundred miles away.”

“Three hundred,” Matt said. “But we won’t have much of a choice.”

Suddenly all my dreams of living someplace civilized evaporated. “I don’t want us to go,” I said. “We’re okay where we are. At least for now. The longer we give the world time to recover, the better off things will be when we do have to go.”

Matt laughed. I couldn’t tell if that meant he thought it was funny I kept changing my mind or if he thought it was funny the world would ever recover.

The road cleared up pretty good after that, and we got back on our bikes and rode the rest of the way into town. We didn’t see anyone, but I was prepared for that. Most people in Howell had either left early on or died during the winter.

The City Hall door was unlocked, and when we walked in, we found Mr. Danworth. I was so relieved to see him, I almost burst out crying.

“We came to see about the food,” Matt said. I could tell from his shaky voice he was near tears himself. “Is there any?”

Mr. Danworth nodded. “We’re not delivering anymore,” he said. “You can take your regular amount home with you today.”

“Do other people know?” I asked. “Or didn’t you tell anybody?”

Mr. Danworth looked uncomfortable. “We were instructed not to tell,” he said. “Just stop the deliveries and whoever shows up gets food.”

“What about the people who can’t come in?” I asked. “What if they’re too weak to or it’s too far away?”

“It wasn’t my decision,” Mr. Danworth said. “And a few folks have come in. We’re keeping City Hall open all week for anyone who makes the trip. Starting next week we’ll only be open on Mondays.”

“How much longer will you be getting food in?” Matt asked. “Did they tell you?”

“I’ll tell you what I know,” Mr. Danworth replied. “A lot of the big cities—New York, Philadelphia, even Washington—they’ve been shut down. New York, I know, was hit hard by the waves. I guess the other cities weren’t safe, either. But the cities were getting food deliveries until everybody got moved out. There was some food left over, and it’s being distributed to a handful of towns. It’s all connections, and we were lucky that Mayor Ford has some. His wife’s cousin is married to the governor. We got our share, maybe even more.

“Only now they don’t want us delivering what we get. Maybe it’s to save whatever gas we have left, or maybe it’s to make sure only the strong get to eat. But the letter said we could expect food for the next few weeks at least, and we’d be told when it’ll stop. If anyone didn’t come in for their food, we could take that amount and give it to those people who did. Next week maybe you’ll get a little more than you’ve been used to.”

“That’s awful,” I said. “You’re going to let people die.”

“If it’ll make you feel any better, give them your food,” Mr. Danworth said. “I don’t know anyone else alive on Howell Bridge Road, but there are other places around town you could go.”

“We’ll take our food,” Matt said. “There are four of us. We didn’t all have to come in for it, did we?”

“No,” Mr. Danworth said. “One representative per family. Your bags are right here.”

We took them.

“I don’t like this, either,” Mr. Danworth said. “It gave me pleasure to see people’s faces light up when I’d bring them their food. But it’s the government. It makes the rules, and we have to follow them.”

“We’re lucky to have what we get,” Matt said. “And we appreciate your keeping City Hall open this week.”

“Maybe things’ll get better,” Mr. Danworth said. “All the rain. That’s got to mean something.”

“Let’s hope so,” Matt said. “Come on, Miranda.”

I carried out two of the bags while Matt carried the others.

“People are going to die,” I said as we loaded the bags onto the bikes. “Isn’t there something we can do?”

Matt shook his head. “I think you’re worrying about nothing,” he said. “The only ones left are strong enough to get to town. The sick, the elderly, they’ve either moved on or died. Take Mrs. Nesbitt. She was in great health before all this, but she couldn’t survive.”

“So it’s only people like us,” I said. “Young and healthy.”

“Probably,” Matt said. “Survival of the fittest. And the luckiest.”