I turned away from the window to look at him. “Excuse me?”
“The three of us: you, me and Ash,” he said, grabbing a coat from the closet and shoving his arms in. “You’ve got five minutes to pack; we need to go.”
“But Dad…” I protested, avoiding all eye contact with Ash, who was standing frozen in place.
He wheeled on me, anger and worry and panic on his face. “Seriously, Zoey Elizabeth? We need to go, and we need to go now. Ash is coming with us. We’re not just going to leave him here.”
I opened my mouth and closed it a few times.
Dad stopped what he was doing for a moment and ran his shaking hands through his hair, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “They’re bombing New York, and the surrounding areas.”
It took a moment for this to sink in. “What do you mean?”
“Just go upstairs and pack, now,” he said, firmly. “We don’t have much time.” He looked at Ash. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have time for you to go home and grab stuff.”
I raced back upstairs, yanking my duffel bag from underneath my bed and throwing it on top of the covers. It was my travel bag, the one I always used when I was forced out to Nebraska to visit my mom, every other Christmas and for half of Spring Break. It already had several pairs of socks and underwear tucked inside and toiletries like a toothbrush, deodorant and shampoo.
I took the gun holster off (why had I strapped it on over my pajamas?) and threw the pajamas I was wearing in my bag. I slipped on a pair of slim black jeans and a tight black shirt. I crawled into my closet briefly and yanked on my sturdy black boots. I caught my reflection in the mirror for a moment and noted how I looked like a heroine from a Resident Evil video game or something. I looked like I was trying way too hard, but what else did you wear when you were running away from zombies?
I yanked my hair back into its usual ponytail and strapped the holster back around my waist. I proceeded to grab as many clothes as I could find and shoved them in the bag. I looked around my room, wondering what I should grab. Eighteen years I had lived in this room, eighteen years of memories and accumulating a ton of stuff, and I had no idea what to bring with me.
I pulled a picture of my dad, Madison and I at the Mets game off my mirror. It seemed so small, like it was nothing compared to so many other things in this room. Should I grab the medals I got from playing soccer as a kid or the Honor Society certificates? Should I grab the diary I kept all through my preteen years, filled with a ton of hate words about Ash, and my middle school crush, and eventual boyfriend, Joel?
“Zoey! Let’s go!”
I shook my head, dismissing memories and settled on the photo, my extremely worn and loved copy of Marion Zimmer Bradley’s The Mists of Avalon, my Mets hat and, superficially, my iPod. I slung the bag over my shoulder and ran down the stairs. “Okay, let’s go.” I turned to Bandit. “Let’s go, Bandit.”
“Zoey, I don’t think…” my dad said, looking stricken.
I looked back and forth between him and Ash, and I started to feel panicked. “No. No, you’re not thinking. You can’t be thinking…”
“It doesn’t make sense to bring him,” Dad said, softly. “I can’t worry about Bandit. I need to worry about you, and Ash.”
My fingers were lost in the shaggy fur of Bandit’s head. “I can’t…” my voice was caught on a sob. “I can’t leave him, Dad. He won’t understand. I can’t just…”
Bandit could sense the tension in the room and barked softly, pacing in place. He was only six years old and still acted like an overgrown pup sometimes. I looked appealingly at Ash and Dad, but I knew it was a lost cause. My dad’s face was full of defeat and sorrow, and Ash avoided my eyes completely.
I fell to my knees in front of Bandit and pulled him into my arms, burying my face into his warm, smelly fur. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered to him. “I’m so sorry, Bandit. I love you so much.”
I pulled back, leaving a damp spot on his fur. He was looking up at me, confused, and licked the tears from my face. I led him to the basement and shut the door. I couldn’t bear to look at him as we abandoned him. I couldn’t do it.
“Let’s go,” I said, sharply, refusing to look at either of them.
My dad was staring out the window. “There’s a group of them about a block up. If we move swiftly and quietly, we can probably make it to the car before they notice.”