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the world so she could start over without debt. Truth be known, Tammy was a softy and scared a lot easier than she let on.
    Mona. I honestly knew and believed as I wrote about her in the notebook, that if it wasn’t for her, we might have died. She forever will get credit for saving my life. We connected in a weird way, psychically. To me it made perfect sense and only went to figure, that she’d be the one to call me about the bombs, because Mona more than anyone, would know I was clueless and wouldn’t be watching TV. Of all the people she could have called, with insistence she called me. That alone says a lot about Mona.
    Rod was a lot like Mona, but never gave himself any credit. Just like he proclaimed he’d never be a survivor. He stated he had no survivor skills and about the only thing he’d be perfect at doing, was keeping the bomb shelter clean. I hesitated a lot when I wrote about Rod in the notebook. Debating his fate like a see saw in my mind. I made no bones about the fact that I swore he and I were soul mates, and as I wrote about him, I searched my soul for clues. Where was Rod? My soul passed on answering.
    Don Burke, or as we all just called him, ‘Burke’. A big and burly guy I had known for so long, I couldn’t remember a time in my life when he wasn’t there. A heart as big as his body, but he had a temper that killed any good decision-making he made. He blamed a lot of errors in his life on choices made in anger. If that was really the excuse, then Burke must have truly been in a fit of outrage when he made the judgment call on marrying Hebba.
    Hebba. For a woman I thought very little of, she was the center of a lot of writing when it came to her in that notebook. ‘Loud mouth, foul, obnoxious, drunk’ is how I believe I started the ‘Hebba page’. Sober, Hebba was ... OK. But put a drink in her hand and there wasn’t a person within ten feet of her that didn’t want to take her life. No exaggeration. I would be lying if I didn’t say when I wrote about her in that notebook, I actually contemplated whether or not I wanted her to be alive.
    The final two were Craig and Nicky, a couple who at the time of the bombs stood a slim chance of being anywhere near each other. These two were complete opposites. Nicky, she was a decade older than Craig in years. But in appearances and attitude, Craig had her beat by a long shot. I don’t know how ‘Sweet Nicky’ put up with Craig. If it were possible for him to be anything more than serious, I would have to say anal. Craig was anal. It was his ‘anal’ quality that assured me that of everyone on my list; Craig stood the highest chance of being alive.
    End of the list.
    End of the day.
    Writing in the notebook withered away the hours, and I finished just as the battery operated light died out. Composing served its purpose. It focused me enough to lift my spirits a tad and make me think clearer. Approaching the third night in the dark shelter seemed more tolerable. All of us were definitely more at ease, and the initiative to light my homemade ‘sterno stove’ finally fell upon me. Using an old tin peculator, I brewed two cups of coffee while dinner cooked. We wound down the evening with a story read by Davy, and our bellies were filled with the first hot meal we had in days—split pea soup.

5. A Signal  

    The alarm clock chimed at 10:15 AM. It wasn’t a wake-up call, it was a form of knowledge. Days and nights held no distinction, and the alarm was a signal to Davy that another full day had passed. He marked the calendar with an ‘X’. We were beginning day four. Exactly seventy-two hours had passed since the bombs.
    The Geiger counter was a bust. If indeed it did work, it was hard to tell in the basement, and I had yet to gain the courage to venture outside and do a reading. A part of me kept on hoping that soon enough I would hear trucks roll down the street. The Military maybe, blaring out through megaphones that, ‘Help is on the