What Comes After

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 homeowner's 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).