Boy is a smart dog. Way smart. He knows his way back to the bus.

So why hasn't he come back yet?

I wish I paid more attention to what the place looked like the last time I left to figure out if someone else had been in here. Taken him.

But he wouldn't have let anyone take him, would he?

Unless they did it by force.

No. No way. Boy's too tough.

So where the hell is he?

I'm lying in my bed, eyes travelling over the doodle of Boy and I that I had stitched into the green rag draped above me. I remember the days I'd spent trying to make this abandoned, hollowed out vehicle a nice place for me and Boy to live in. And I'm pretty proud of how it turned out.

The sunshine peeking through the newspaper print I've pasted against the windows tells me it's at least early afternoon. I've read the headlines a million times.

2000 Trees Planted in State Park.

Fairfield's Newest Pizzeria A Hit.

Horoscopes. Virgo: The 14th-15th brings good energy for learning endeavors and happy encounters. Be open to spontaneity in love or with friends at this time.

These are all, of course, before the news of the incoming asteroid hit the media.

I remember that day all too clearly. Everyone was shrugging it off. I was writing a piece about it for the school paper. Asking public opinion. "It's just another thing that'll blow over." My lab partner, Katie Jensen, said that.

I stare across the bus at the rack of things I've collected over the years. Tennis balls, a hockey stick, old clothes I'd managed to gather. All I have to my name in a world that's run by monsters. Another thing that'll blow over, she said.

I never blamed her. Nobody expected what happened would happen. It was unthinkable. The world couldn't just... end. We weren't done with it yet.

But here I am, nursing a messed up foot (which has gone from a sharp ache to a dull one, so I guess that's good), unable to remember the last time I talked to another human being. Lying down in an old bus. Missing my dog.

How long had I been passed out in that house I took cover in? Hours? Days?

I can hear the trees rustling with the wind outside. I sigh to myself, the shock of missing Boy nagging me into the idea of finally finishing putting together the ham radio I never completed.

After the nightmare of when I was proven totally and entirely wrong that I could trust other survivors, I promised myself that I wouldn't touch that thing again. Why try to contact other people when they would just screw me over?

But with Boy gone now, I have nobody. Nothing.

I have no desire to fix that radio. But as I look across the bus into the mess of wires I left it in long ago, I know I'm going to try to fix it.

That's the thing about the survival instinct, isn't it? If you don't have anything to live for, it still tries to convince you that you do.

It's been three days, and every day, I've cried over Boy.

I can't remember the last time I cried like this.

Well, I can. But I'd rather not think about that.

I'm frustrated as hell with this ham radio. The old landline phone I'd taken from the house I'd collapsed in after messing up my foot is essentially a pile of junk, but I didn't win "Most Determined" at camp in the summer of 2010 for nothing. Granted, I was just a kid, but I like to think determination doesn't go away with age.

Camp Wilderness is one of the memories that always comes up for me. It's been years, but my brain likes to roll the film reel often, whether I like it or not. After seeing how much I loved Girl Scouts, my parents enrolled me in the camp that promised to "teach basic survival skills, while creating lifelong friendships."

I scoff to myself. The friendships weren't lifelong. Apocalypses have a way of changing and destroying friendships, no matter how many times you and your "friend" ate smores by a campfire.

When I hear a crackle come out of the makeshift speaker, the pile of junk is no longer a pile of junk. Suddenly, it's the most valuable thing in my bus.

I almost don't notice the tear of happiness that runs down my cheek.

I keep tinkering with the antennas, until crackles turn into muffled words, and I let out a gasp of awe.

"...headed to the mountains..." the man on the other end says.

"Hello? Hello?" I announce, voice cracking. The last time I spoke, I was with Boy, and it makes me feel like my voice box is an old engine starting up again, sputtering and faltering.

"The surface is a dangerous place. But I don't think hiding underground is the answer anymore," the stranger says.

"Can you hear me?" I say.

"...If I can survive out here, anybody can. It's like a good friend once told me. Good instincts are earned by making mistakes."

I finally quiet down, listening to everything the man's saying. He must not be able to hear me, but there's something in his voice – hope – that keeps me on the edge of my seat.

He signs off as Joel Dawson, then it goes into complete silence.

"Hello? Can anyone hear me?" I say. "Hello?"

I wait and wait and go unanswered.

I continue to call out, until his voice comes again.

"My name is Joel Dawson. I'm 24 years old, and I survived seven days on the surface. Twice, actually."

I realize it's a recording.

I listen through the entire thing, hearing the stranger promise a better life in the mountains.

The hope I felt quickly turns to skepticism. Who's to say this isn't a trick?

I let him finish his monologue, then continue to call out, knowing it won't lead to anything.

Joel Dawson, 24, in the mountains.

And I'm Nora Williams, 23, in the bus. Only I can't announce it to everybody. Not that I would.

I go through other channels, finding no luck in reaching anybody else other than this Joel guy who could either be simply sharing good news or running some kind of con and ultimately leading people to their deaths.

I lean back in my ratty lawn chair and sigh.

Well. What now?

Except I know. I know what now. I know that if there's nothing else this radio can offer me, and I can't reach anybody, I'm going to stand up, pack my belongings, and go to the stupid mountains.

My backpack is stuffed with everything I've deemed important enough to take with me. Clothing, bedding, what little food and water I have left, my dad's old compass, a dagger I keep just in case, and my remaining toiletries, because even in a post-apocalyptic world, I want to be at least somewhat presentable.

I feel for the shard of mirror I always carry in my pocket, curiosity compelling me to carefully dig it out. I typically use it to strategically shine the light from the sun wherever I need it when a monster is hot on my trail, but it's been ages since I've looked at myself in it.

My brown eyes are surrounded by swollen eyelids, no doubt from the days of crying over Boy, and my dark skin is littered with scrapes. If the headache that lasted two sunsets wasn't evidence enough, this made it clear just how hard I must've fallen.

My eyes look like they're pleading for an answer to a question I don't know. If I had to make a guess, my common sense is trying to come through, asking why in the hell I think I should trust a random broadcast.

"Because I have nothing left," I say to myself, stuffing my reflection back in my pocket so she can't look at me like that anymore.

I'm grateful that I can stand without any pain in my foot now, and I place my palm on my pillow, like I'm saying goodbye to it through a touch.

And it's like a light bulb turns on.

My dress. My red dress.

It's gone.

I can't believe how long it's taken my head to clear and realize this.

Someone was in here. And they must have taken Boy.

The hope about the mountains that's been driving me to keep going makes room for something else. It's rage. And I'd argue it's the more powerful of the two.

When I reach the mountains, it's early evening. It's been a week of travelling on foot; I've outrun at least eight monsters (and was able to escape them without causing them any harm), my food source has been depleted, and I've got a hole in my right sneaker. So, safe to say I'm arriving in great shape.

Once I get close enough, I realize that they're building a fortress. A damn fortress.

High panels made of wood, steel, and seemingly whatever else they could find tower over me, and I see figures moving all around – building and adding to the tops and sides.

It's nowhere near monster-proof, but they're getting there.

I realize my hands are shaking as I continue to walk forward, gripping my backpack, all fatigue being ushered away by my eagerness to explore. I hear voices and laughter and materials being moved and scraping against each other.

I haven't seen other people in so long. I realize how lonely I've been when I can't wait to see them up close.

But my instinct forces its way in as it always does, remembering nobody is to be trusted.

I stumble over the rocky dirt trail, eyes scanning the place I've been trekking to for the past seven days.

"Hey!" I hear.

I glance up to see a woman standing on what looks like a ladder, and she greets me with a smile, hopping down to the ground with a thud. Her boots crack twigs as she comes towards me, and I feel myself cower back, refusing to break eye contact with her.

"You're new. I'm Ava." She reaches out her hand. I clear my throat and meet her halfway, shaking it.

"Nora."

"You heard the broadcast?"

"It's the only thing on the radio," I say with a shrug and reluctant smile.

She laughs.

"Yeah, Joel's kind of become the... annoying voice of this place," Ava says. "Well, anyways. Welcome. Are you...?" She looks behind me. "On your own?"

I nod, and a flash of sadness hits her features.

"Uh, welcome," she says again. It seems like she doesn't quite know what to say when she realizes I'm without a colony. "Let me show you around. It's not much, but we're working on it."

I give her a tight-lipped grin, and even though she's the kindest person I've met in years, I have to comfort myself by remembering that I have that dagger in my backpack in case I need it.