July 17

First day of gathering kindling, and it turns out that we weren't the only ones who thought about that.

Dad took me, Mira, and May out to the woods. May wheeled a small wagon, so it'd be easier for us to bring all the wood that we needed back. Dad brought a small hatchet that we bought a couple years back for a camping trip. The blade was a bit rusted, but it was usable. "Okay, kids," Dad said when we arrived there. "Start gathering wood. Make sure to avoid poison ivy. Also, don't get any green stuff. It's not good for fires."

"What about poison oak?" I asked.

"Just don't get anything poisonous," Dad said.

"How are we supposed to know what's poisonous and what isn't?" May grumbled.

"Look at other people," Dad said. "Next time we can bring a plant guide."

Mira and I partnered with each other while Dad and May did so too. We took the plastic bags while they took the hatchet and wagon. There were lots of people wandering the woods, gathering small branches and twigs. I saw a group of men and women working together to saw down a large sycamore tree.

"Should I feel bad that we're causing climate change?" I asked.

"No," Mira said. "All the volcanoes erupting are some crude geoengineering."

There was an awkward pause, and then, I remembered about our little library detour.

"So..." I said. "Did you hear back from the letters?"

"I, I haven't really checked," Mira said.

"Oh, yeah," I said. "I thought the mail people might have delivered it to our house."

"No," Mira said. "With no gasoline, no mail delivery."

"Isn't mail an essential service?"

"Not according to our mayor."

"Maybe we can go to the post office," I suggested.

"I don't know if I want to," Mira said.

"Why not?" I asked.

"What if he never responded?" she asked. "Like the letter got sent, but he just never bothered to respond."

"Look," I said. "I know you care about him, even though I've never met him before, and he must also care a lot about you, so people who, you know, care for each other that much wouldn't not respond."

"I hope you're right," she said.

"I know I'm right."

We talked about other stuff and picked up branches from the ground. The leaves on the trees were browning like it was autumn, and some of the young kids were playing with the leaves, kicking up clouds of ash. We had our air masks on, but some others didn't, and they coughed loudly enough to scare the birds away.

"Head's up!" someone shouted and we watched as a tree fell down. They took a chainsaw and divided up the trunk into small chunks for everyone who helped, leaving the branches behind for everyone else.

"You want to try breaking it," Mira asked as we tried to snap a thick branch in half.

"I'll hold one end in place,and then you should stomp on the other end."

We tried that, and it did not work out. I nearly got smacked in the face with the branch. Luckily, Dad and May had found us, and Dad's hatchet quickly dismembered the branch into smaller parts that would fit in our bag. We had worked for a solid two hours before heading back. Dad's whole rotating shifts plan did not work out.

Mom managed to push out the car with the help of Grandma and Grandpa. And Dad said that he'd take care of the wood and let us rest. May went for a shower and disappeared in the bathroom while Mira went to sleep and I collapsed on the couch.

Tomorrow is going to be a terrible day for my muscles.

July 18

Help me!

I feel like I'm dying.

July 20

A couple days of rest does wonders for your body.

No more wood gathering until tomorrow at least. Dad is having some back troubles. Our stash seemed large on the day we gathered it, but now, looking at it, it's a little sad. Dad cleared out the whole garage to make space for the wood, and whatever we gathered is only taking up a small corner of it.

Dad went outside to talk to the Hunters today. They had a massive RV parked in front of their house, and they were quickly packing boxes and wrapped parcels into it.

"You guys leaving?" Dad asked.

"Yeah," Mr. Hunter said. "This town is running out of food, and there has been no electricity for a solid month now."

Mrs. Hunter put down a box and chimed in. "I've got family in Oklahoma," she said. "It's a long drive, but it'll all be worth it. People say that things are better in the South: the skies are clearer, the weather warmer. They've got power too."

"Shouldn't we be a bit more cautious," Dad said. "I mean that sounds great, but isn't it a little too good to be true."

"It's our only hope," Mr. Hunter said. "Things are only going to get worse from here onwards."

"Things aren't that bad here," Dad said. "I mean we've lost electricity, but the weather is fine and you've got a house here—"

"Look," Mrs. Hunter said. "I appreciate how much you want us to stay, but look around you. The neighborhood is deserted. The Guptas left weeks ago along with the Parks and Kims and almost everyone else."

"What my wife means to tell you is that there is nothing left here for us," Mr. Hunter said. "You've been a great neighbor to us. You're the head of our homeowners association. We can't pack anything, so whatever is left is yours to take."

"Are you sure that I can't convince you guys to stay?"

"No," Mrs. Hunter said. "Our minds are long made up."

"Well," Dad said. "I wish you a safe journey out east."

And then they left, driving off into the unknown, kicking up a blizzard of ash. And our neighborhood got even quieter. "Do you think they'll ever come back?" I asked Dad.

"I don't know," was all he said.

July 22

Mom allowed me to go out again.

May wanted to go and check out the Hunter's house to see if there was anything useful lying around, but Dad told her that she couldn't. "They've only left for one day," he said. "There's plenty of time for them to change their minds. And plus, we don't know what type of message that'll send to our neighbors, breaking into our next-door neighbor's house."

"We're not even breaking into it," May said. "They gave us the key. And it's not like we even have any neighbors around anymore that are snooping on us."

"Doesn't matter," Dad said. "No going into their house until I say so."

May grumbled a little, but she didn't push Dad. Everyone seemed pretty tense lately. The threat of dying from starvation or hypothermia is on everyone's minds. Dad started cleaning up the fireplace in our living room to prepare for when we run out of natural gas. We haven't used it ever in our lives, as far as I remember (maybe we used it when I was younger, but I'm not really sure).

Grandma and Grandpa went into the garden and tried to salvage whatever was left under the ashes. With everything going on and all the ash storms, nobody has really bothered to clean up the garden or even water it, so most of the plants were wilted and dying. But still, they managed to get some small zucchinis and green tomatoes out of the dying plants. There were a couple mini-eggplants and a handful of strawberries left, but that was it. This felt like a solid waste of five hundred bucks.

Mom and Mira are also setting up some kind of pseudo-greenhouse in the garage. We've got a lot of spare batteries from when the solar panels were working, and a couple of old desk lamps that can run on these batteries. We've got some potted herbs, green onion, and garlic plants that have been just lying around in the house. They're not dying, probably because they're accustomed to low light conditions, so Mom and Mira wanted to try and grow them.

"Should we can or fry the zucchinis?" Mom asked.

"Do you even know how to can them?" I replied.

"I'm sure we can figure it out," Mira said. "But I prefer them fried."

"Fried it is," Mom said. "Do you want some?"

"No," I said. "Zucchini is pretty gross."

"Neal," she said and put her serious face on. "You know we're not going to have the luxury of eating whatever we want if things keep going the way they are."

"I know," I said. "Just not today."

"I need to go out now," I continued. "I'll be back in an hour."

"To where?" Mom asked.

"Just the garden," I replied. "Charles is going to be there."

"Be safe," Mom said. "Be here in an hour or—"

"I'll be grounded for life," I said. "I know."

While I was walking to the garden, I started to notice the silence. The streets should be filled with people heading to the beaches, seagulls cawing incessantly, cars rumbling up and down the streets.

But now, there's nothing, just empty silence. The people have moved south because it's supposed to be better there. The seagulls are gone, probably migrating south, where the weather is a little warmer. The cars moved with the people, most of them are in the south. It seems like everything has gone south.

I saw Charles in the garden. "You're still working on fixing up the garden?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "Hey, look at this."

He pointed at a sad looking tomato blossom. "See, my efforts are working."

"It looks depressing."

"Just making my best out of a not great situation," he said. "You know, making lemonade out of lemons."

"So you're saying that lemons are bad," I said.

"Yeah, basically," he said. "They're sour and pretty nasty. Why are we even talking about lemons?"

"I don't know," I said. "Just because we can."

He went back down to examine a couple of the plants. They were a little shriveled and shrunken. "How often are you out here?" I asked.

"A couple times a week," he said.

"Like two times? Or more?"

"Most days I'm here," he replied.

"That's not good for your lungs," I said. "Breathing all that ash in."

"I'm wearing a mask though. I'll be fine."

"You should stay inside more often. Why are you even out here most days?"

"I just want this to work," he said and stood up. "By the way, what's your first bucket list wish item?"

"I want you to stop coming out here every single day," I said.

"C'mon," he said. "That's just not fair. How are you even going to enforce it?"

"I trust that you'll keep your part of the bucket list just like I did," I said.

"But the plants will die if I don't come out here often," he said.

"Then let me take half of your gardening days for you. And you can stay at home and not be outside."

"So your first wish is that you want to do more work," he said. "That's fine by me. The only day that I don't come here is Saturday. So which days do you want to take?"

"I'll do Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays and we can both do Fridays."

"No," he said. "You're working 3 and a half days while I'm working 2 and a half. I'll take Thursday."

"We'll trade Thursday every other week."

"Nope," he said. "I'm keeping it, and that's the end of discussion."

So then we got to work, moving the soil around and trying to clear it of ash, and pulling out the small, hardy weeds that managed to sprout from the soil. It was cold, hard work. By the time that I had finished fixing up my second large planter, I realized that it was time to leave.

"I think it has been an hour now," I said. "I need to get back home. Remember, it's your turn for the bucket list now. Come up with something good."

I walked away, but when I looked back, I saw Charles sitting on the edge of the planter box looking down and breathing heavily. Something just doesn't seem right with him, but I don't know what.

As I walked home, I realized that I had no idea what else I was supposed to do in the garden. I knew there was a water faucet next to the shed and a watering pail lying around, but was there anything else to do. I was going to turn around, but Mom's warning replayed in my head. She was serious about this, so I went back home. I'll probably figure it out later.

I wonder why Charles is so fixated with the garden. I'm pretty sure that most of the plants growing in it are eventually going to die by the time the first frost comes, which looks like it's getting sooner and sooner every day, or just die from the lack of sunlight. It seems like an awfully large amount of work to maintain something that is bound to fail.

But there is some part of me that doesn't necessarily support his decision, but understands it. It's his way of coping and holding onto hope in these dark times (literally).

July 23

Pretty tame day for the food distribution. After last week's council meeting and the anger in the room, I expected more chaos. I guess the best of people were brought out with a nice inspirational speech.

The rations are getting smaller. Last week, I counted ten cans in the bag. This week, there were only eight cans and two of mine were measly cans of tuna and spam, less than half the size of the cans of string beans and corn. We're really running out of food. I wonder when the food distribution is going to stop.

I saw May adjusting the spreadsheet, erasing and rewriting numbers. "What are you doing?" I asked.

"You know what I'm doing," she said. "Don't play dumb."

"You can't keep doing this," I said. "Mom and Dad are going to keep closer track of the food supplies, and they'll find out."

"I'm so hungry all the time—"

"We all are," I said.

"Two cans per day are ridiculous," she said. "And I'm tired all the time."

"I'm not taking as many as before," she continued. "Just one extra can a week. One can won't make any difference in our lives."

"Just please stop—"

"What are guys talking about stopping?" Mira asked and looked down on us.

I couldn't think of an excuse, but May whipped out a quick response. "We were just talking about whether we should revisit the beach. I think Neal's pretty annoyed by my nagging."

"Why don't you run that idea by Mom?"

"Nah," May said and left the room. "You know Mom. She's extra paranoid about everything. It's a dumb idea anyways."

"So what was that all about?" Mira asked.

"It's nothing," I replied.

"And that's the truth?"

"Yeah," I said. "Nothing important."

I didn't lie to her. Mira knowing that May was taking just one can every week was not important for her or significant for these circumstances. It was a partial truth, but just thinking about it, I feel like it's closer to a lie rather than the unfiltered truth that we promised to each other.

July 24

Mom and Dad had a big freakout this morning, and we've got a guest sleeping on the couch in the living room.

Sometime in the morning, maybe around ten, a dark blue van pulled into our driveway. I was reading the fantasy novel that I checked out a week ago from the library while staring off into the distance. The book I was reading just didn't capture my attention. Nothing seemed to capture my attention at that point, except for a flash of blue outside the window.

"Mom? Dad? I think there's someone in our driveway."

"Are they armed?" Dad asked and rushed towards the window to peer outside.

"They're in their car," I said. "How am I supposed to tell if they were armed or not armed?"

Dad rushing to the window brought Mom and May to the front door. Everyone was pretty much staring at whoever was in the car. It was the first new (and non-gray) thing that showed up.

"That's why they invented glasses," May said. "So that you can use your eyeballs and look around."

"Kids," Mom said. "Get away from the window. They could be dangerous."

"Why would anyone target our house only, out of the thousands of houses in our city," May remarked.

The figure in the car was desperately trying to find something in the compartment that's in front of the passenger seat, moving their hands quickly and seemed visibly frustrated.

"I think they're fumbling with something," I said.

"It's a gun," Dad said and ran to the garage. "I'm going to get the hatchet."

"Isn't that an overreaction," May said. "Maybe they're grabbing some cans for food. They could be sent by the city council."

"No one would put cans in that compartment," Mom said. "They'd stick it in the trunk. Common sense."

"Some people lack common sense," May retorted. "Especially this person. Who would drive a car? That would mean you have gas, and that will make you a target."

"Hey!" I said. "Stop repeating what I said."

"Are you high or something? You never said that."

"I said that to you for your friend's birthday party. If you use the hair curler, everyone will know that we have electricity."

"That was different," she said. "Everyone had electricity back then."

"Whatever you say," I said.

"What did I miss?" Dad said when he returned, panting.

"Nothing," I said. "They're still looking for whatever they're looking for."

"For a robber, they're awfully ineffective," Mom said.

"Should I go out and confront them," Dad said. "With this?"

"No!" Mom, May, and I said though May added. "That would be pretty funny."

"It's safer in the house," Mom said. "If they had a gun, they'd shoot you before you could even raise that sad hatchet."

"So we're going to wait," I said and we waited for a solid three minutes before the guy actually came out of the car.

"He's out," May said and sarcastically . "Oh, no. Let's run away. Aahh."

There was a soft knock on the door. Mom was too scared to peer through the door's peephole.

"Kids," Mom said. "I want you to go into the kitchen and stay away from the door and let the adults deal with this."

"If we don't make it," Dad said. "Then run."

So May and I went into the kitchen and laid low, though we peered from behind the door. We heard a knock, and Dad opened the door.

There was a guy at the door, a white guy with short brown hair and a scruffy beard wearing clothes that were so clean that they were probably washed recently. He was pretty handsome and very confused. Dad held the hatchet and stood in front of the doorway. "What do you want?" Dad said and gripped the hatchet.

The guy's face turned pale white. "Does Mira live here?"

"Mira," Mom said. "Someone is looking for you."

There was no movement in the hallway.

"I think she's still sleeping," May said.

"I'll go wake her up," I said and walked to our bedroom.

"Mira, there's someone waiting for you," I said.

"Neal," she said and yawned. "Stop messing with me. This is a ploy to wake me up isn't it. What do you not want to do: dishes or laundry?"

"It'd be nice if you actually trusted me," I said. "There's someone at the door looking for you. White guy, brown hair with a kinda beard. Does that ring any bells?"

Mira sprang out of bed. "My hair doesn't look too terrible, right?"

"It has had better days," I said. "Just hurry up. I think Dad might kill him."

I went back into the kitchen and laid low. "Has Dad murdered him?"

"No," May said. "No blood spilled yet. Dad's just interrogating him. Just the usual 'I have to be sure that you aren't a secret serial killer that is going to abduct my daughter and dismember her brutally' talk that all movie dads give."

"Great!" I said. "Mira's going to be out soon to sort this out hopefully."

Mira ran out of her room and patted down any strands of hair floating around, and walked to the door.

"Mira?" the guy said.

"Leon," she said. He moved past Dad and they hugged. Dad looked shocked, more angry than fainting shock, while Mom looked on awkwardly with a tinge of happiness and confusion.

"I've missed you," she said.

"Me too," he said. "I got your letters—"

"They actually delivered!" Mira exclaimed.

"Yeah, postage still works," he replied. "There are so many things I want to tell you. My family is leaving California for New Mexico in two weeks, and I want you to come with us."

He got down on his knees and pulled out a ring box, which was why he was fumbling with something in the car. "Will you marry me?"

That was a bit sudden.

Everyone gasped. Dad's jaw dropped. I almost laughed. This felt like something that'd happen in the movies— not real life. But then again, a lot of things that happen in the movies do happen in real life. People draw inspiration from lots of different places.

Mira looked flustered, happy but very confused. "I'm not sure if this is the right time. I mean I'd like to but this all feels a little sudden."

"Oh," he said and looked embarrassed. "That's, that's alright."

"Have you got a place to stay?" she asked.

"My parents are at a relative's place," he said. "It's about twenty miles north of here, pretty close by."

"That's far," she said. "You're staying at our house."

"Will your parents be alright with that?" he said and glanced at Dad still holding the hatchet.

"Yeah," Mira said. "Neal, May. You guys can come out now."

So we walked out from the kitchen, and Mom and Dad and all of us gathered into the living room and did our standard introductions and hand shaking. Honestly, it felt like one of the strangest things that happened this summer because of how normal it was.

We situated him in the living room. Dad said that Mira and him could not share a room (not like there was any room to share with), so Mom grabbed a couple of old blankets and pillows and made a makeshift bed. Mira and him were catching up about everything, so May and I just worked awkwardly on the side organizing books and board games that were scattered around to make our house somewhat presentable.

When it came time for dinner, we all gathered around the dining table. "How many people have we got?" Mom asked.

"Eight," I replied.

"Grab sixteen cans."

"Sixteen! That's a lot more than our two cans a day per person."

"We can't make a bad first impression on our guest," she replied. "Just do it."

I went into the pantry and grabbed sixteen cans filled with a wide assortment of mixed vegetables, corn, broccoli, and peas. I even grabbed an extra can of peaches just in case people wanted to eat dessert. But then I felt guilty about splurging on so much food, so I put the can back. It's better to save it for another day.

Grandma and Grandpa worked in the kitchen, trying to craft a meal out of these canned goods. Grandma seemed happier than usual, probably because she actually gets to do something out of the canned food, not just eating it out of a can.

In the dining room, Dad was interrogating Leon. He asked in a tone that was more akin to a police officer than a parent, "So how did you guys meet?"

"You want to tell him," he said to May with a smile.

"No," she said. "Don't you dare! It's too embarrassing."

"I want to hear it," May said.

"No, Leon. Do not listen to my sister."

"Fine, fine," he said. "It's a story for another day."

"Were there any drugs involved when you guys met? Alcohol?" Dad asked.

"No," Mira said. "It's just an embarrassing little story."

"Don't need to be so negative, Dad," May said.

"I've heard a lot of stories about drug use in college. In March, one of my coworker's daughter's friend's cousin did too many drugs at school and got kicked out of college and—"

"Dad," May said. "They're exaggerating their stories to make their own kids look good. It's just hysteria. Right, Leon?"

"As far as I'm aware, yes," Leon said. "A couple of people got sent to the hospital for alcohol poisoning, but no drug issues as far as I'm aware of."

"Dinner is ready," Dad said and walked to the kitchen. "I'll go grab the food."

"So your Dad," he said to Mira. "Real friendly, huh?"

"He's overprotective," Mira said. "And we have a lot of disagreements. Some that may involve you."

"Oh," he said. "He's never going to like me."

"He'll get around to you. Someday."

Grandma and Grandpa brought out a couple of plates filled with steaming vegetables. There was a big bowl of noodles (which meant that we were splurging since I hadn't brought noodles out from the pantry) with corn and broccoli. There was steamed asparagus with spam that was marinated in soy sauce and a plate of pan fried mixed vegetables. It smelled so good, especially after days of eating only two cans of food daily.

"This is too much, Mr. and Mrs—"

"No need for the formalities," Mom said. "Just call me Michelle and my husband here, Avi."

"I know a lot of families are struggling, and I feel like I'm a drain—"

"Our family is not struggling," Dad cut in sharply. "We're doing just fine."

Leon blushed. Mom gave a disparaging look at Dad and turned to Leon. "You're our guest," she said. "You don't need to worry about these things."

"I've got food in my car," he said. "I can go bring it out."

Dad opened his mouth, ready to interject. Dad is such a hypocrite. He emphasizes the need to go to the food drive every single week to get food, but when someone offers to give him food, he's going to say no. It makes no sense unless there are some strange pride things happening.

"That would be real helpful," Mom said.

"I can go get it now," he said.

"We can go get it after you finish your food, Leon," Mira said.

We ate dinner after that. Mom talked to Leon a lot, interrogating him like Dad did, but with more honey than vinegar. We found out that he was born and raised in California and went to some small rural high school. His father was of Irish descent, his mother of italian. He wanted to become an environmental journalist when he graduates— if he ever graduates. "Writing about how the pieces of the puzzle just fit together when you look at everything broadly," he said. "It's pretty amazing."

"Liberal or conservative?" Dad asked all of a sudden.

"Excuse me?" he said. "Can you repeat that?"

"Are you a liberal or a conservative?"

"I grew up with a lot of conservatives, especially in high school, but my parents were liberals and I agree with their values more than the values of my classmates at school."

Dad begrudgingly nodded in approval. He always used to tell us that we could not date or marry anyone conservative. It was like marrying the Devil for Christian— unspeakably sinful.

After we finished dinner, I helped Mom dump the dishes in the sink for tomorrow. Today was such a hectic day and no one wanted to do any more work. Dad, Mira, and Leon went into the driveway and unloaded three boxes packed with food. Mira opened one of them for us: there were the standard canned beans, tomatoes, mixed vegetables, but I spotted a glass jar filled with an amber fluid. It was honey.

"How's you get this?" Mira asked.

"We made it on our farm," he said. "We've got a small bee farm."

There were two large bags of all purpose wheat flour and a smaller bag of salt. "Are you sure you don't need this?" Mom asked, probably thinking that it was too good to be true.

"Yeah," he said. "Our family has plenty. Don't worry about it."

Mom unpacked the boxes and stacked the cans in the pantry. It was still emptier than what it started with a month ago, but it was fuller than yesterday, and that's what matters.

You know what I forgot. Today was my day for tending the garden. Charles is going to kill me for not watering the plants.