I’ll have to shower. At some point I will check my email. Within a matter of days I’ll be watching television, driving my car, shopping for groceries. Paying bills, using money, being lost in a crowd. Relieving myself in a toilet that refills after being flushed—that one at least is easy to imagine. The thought of never again having to use leaves as toilet paper is a delight. But going back to work? Sitting at a desk, answering email, prepping for an incoming school field trip? I know I will do these things, but I can’t quite envision it.
The idea of going back to work feels particularly alien. Before I left, my coworkers and I joked about how I could write about my experiences in our quarterly newsletter, use them to solicit donations. That seems impossible now, but maybe with some distance I’ll find the angle I need to manipulate my experiences for the betterment of the center. Rabies awareness, maybe. The shots they must have of my terror in the face of that frothing mouth—that’s a brochure cover, for sure.
I wonder if that Challenge has aired yet. I know the production schedule is tight, but I don’t know how tight. The scene must look ridiculous. Some lumbering, fur-covered remote-controlled animal bumping into my shelter, sticking its nose inside, cocking a plastic head, and with a press of a button releasing a recorded growl.
I think of my helpless, beseeching pose in the face of such obvious trickery and feel sick.
At least I didn’t quit. They scared me, but that’s all.
I see Brennan jogging back toward me and I force down the anger I still feel, thinking about their coyote.
“Mae,” he calls, “there’s a supermarket ahead.” He pads to a stop a few feet away. “It’s all locked up, but I found a window.”
The supermarket is less than half a mile ahead, a slightly raggedy-looking building at the far end of an empty parking lot. The front doors and windows are gray, I assume shuttered by pull-down metal. There’s a splotch of color on one, graffiti, unintelligible from here. I think of the rewards card dangling from my keychain, which I left hanging on a coat hook at home. Above the mail, next to the collage. “I wonder what’s on special,” I say. Brennan laughs, and as we cross the parking lot he sprints ahead. He’s acting so young today, like a real kid. Like he’s happy. I used to act like that, but not so much as a kid. It was only after I found happiness as an adult that I was able to relax—to the point that a year into my marriage I was making near-daily fart jokes. I even had a bit where I pretended to be a skunk, cocking my hip and hissing, “tssssss.”
There’s something I’m still not willing to do in front of a camera.
Brennan pauses at the far front corner of the supermarket and waves for me to follow. I wave back and he disappears around the building’s edge. Soon I’m walking along the front of the building, and I see the graffiti is a drippy sketch of a mushroom cloud. I round the corner. Brennan is about twenty feet away, balancing on an overturned shopping cart and looking into a high, small window.
“It’s an office,” he says.
“Can you fit through?” I ask.
“Think so. Hand me something to break it?”
There’s a dumpster nearby, open and fetid. More trash is piled against its side, including a length of rusty pipe. I hand the pipe to Brennan and my hand comes away orange. I wipe the residue on my pants as he smashes the window.
“Clear away the shards,” I tell him.
“I know.” He plucks the teeth from the frame, then crawls inside. “Come on, Mae!”
I climb onto the shopping cart, bringing my shoulders to the same height as the broken window. Inside, Brennan stands in a cramped office. He reaches his hand out, but both the window and the room are small. Trying to help, he only gets in the way. Finally I tell him, “Move,” and lower myself down.
The office door unlocks from our side and opens into a hallway, which is lined with offices and culminates in wide swinging doors. Once as a kid I pushed through a set just like these in search of a restroom and stood aghast at the barren concrete walls that greeted me, then a door to the side opened and a gush of cold air followed a young woman out. She was carrying a case of ice cream, and she ushered me back into the store’s retail area kindly. Despite her kindness, I remember being upset that she didn’t give me any of the ice cream. I felt as though I’d earned it, finding that secret place.
Brennan kicks open one of the double doors, then scrambles to block its backswing. A ridiculous expenditure of energy. I follow him out the door, emerging into the meat department. To our left I see open shelving that should be refrigerated but isn’t. The signs I cannot read but anyone who’s ever done the shopping for a household, even a small one, knows: beef, pork, chicken, kosher. A smattering of festering packages, plastic wrap bulging with the gasses of rot. And though I’ve smelled far worse than this, I pull my shirt over my nose. Perpendicular to the rotting meat is aisle upon aisle of nonperishables, far from fully stocked, but still ample. “What do you think, canned soups?” I ask.
“What?” replies Brennan.
I repeat myself, articulating carefully through my shirt.
“No,” he says. “I want Lucky Charms.”
Beneath the fabric, I allow myself a smile as I follow him to the cereal aisle. The supermarket is dim, but not as dark as I’d expected. Light creeps in from ceiling vents and skylights in the produce section’s vaulted ceiling. The floor is dusty, and I can see shiny trails winding through the matte covering. The trails are dotted with tiny, dark pellets. At the end of the nearest aisle there are stacks of Rice-A-Roni, ten for ten dollars. Several of the boxes have been chewed through, their contents spilled onto the floor to mingle with more rodent feces.
I hear Brennan stop, then a sliding sound as he extracts a box of what I assume are his coveted Lucky Charms. The sound of cardboard tearing, then plastic. I leave the endcap display and catch up to him. He’s munching on handfuls of oats and marshmallow, a blissful smile laid atop his chewing mouth.
“I bet we can find some powdered milk if you want an actual bowl,” I tell him. His eyes go wide with possibility and he nods, cheeks bulging. “But first let’s see what I want,” I say. Though several shelves are empty, the aisle still contains a slew of brands. I’m surprised sponsors have allowed this cohabitation upon the shelves. But I suppose they can easily blur whatever brands they want to blur. Lucky Charms is made by General Mills, so I run my eyes along the Kellogg’s brands, just because. And then I change my mind—do they have Kashi? A moment later, I find the shelf I want, the brand, and then the product. Two boxes left. I grab one and then we head off in search of powdered milk.
I’m about to dump the milk into my little cooking pot, when I think, Screw it. We might as well use what’s here. I lead Brennan to the paper-goods aisle and grab a pack of plastic bowls, followed by some spoons. We take our supplies to a display of plastic outdoor furniture surrounded by empty coolers, netted beach toys, and excited signage—SALE SALE SALE! I light a couple candles and we dine seated under an entirely unnecessary umbrella. The cereal I chose is sweeter than I remember.
After Brennan finishes his third bowl of Lucky Charms, he wipes his face and asks, “This is a good place to spend the night, isn’t it?”
He’s clearly seeking my approval. “Sure is,” I say. And then—why? I don’t know, it just comes out—“Smells pretty bad and I’m concerned about all the mouse feces, but other than that it’s good.” Bitch, I think, as I watch Brennan’s face fall. I want to apologize, but for what? He’s a cameraman, not my friend, and he’s not as young as he looks. I can’t apologize. Not directly. Instead I say, “Let’s explore some more. Figure out what we want to take with us for the final push.”
“Final push?” he asks.
“Yeah, we’re not far. Two or three days.” Miles, I think. So little distance separates us now.