I’m counting cans: three, and granules of cat food, seven scoops left. I am calling my dad with no answer and I am putting the phone away. I know what I need to do. I know where to go. I am counting flashlights, both full of batteries and next to the front door. I am counting water: half a gallon of potable water and the tap. I am counting times I saw this coming. I am counting the time the kid told me my teeth were yellow.
“Yeah, it’s even worse being a woman. They call you a hag before your forty if you have yellow teeth,” I say to him.
I smile to the mirror. Night has fallen and the rain is pouring and I am doing it anyway: looking at my yellow teeth, looking at the creases in my forehead, watching my breath form like crystals. I have the journal on my lap. I am counting minutes and I have watched myself, unmoved and creased at the mirror for twenty minutes. Genevieve is behind me on the couch. Her body is moving in soft waves as she sleeps. I am not looking at her but I can feel her I am counting times I knew this would happen and I am counting the space between us, growing. I have nine and a half bags of beans. I have temper, gumption, a general idea of the size of the average foot platoon (sixteen to forty four soldiers, easily matched in my opinion), and a spine that glints in the sun. It is 6:45 pm and I am waiting for something.

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