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roadblock—and the possibility of finding Felicity gave me purpose. Since seeing Felicity’s recording, I knew I’d made the right choice. I knew she would lead me home.
    Inside, the store was dark and most of the shelves were bare. I took some canned food—soups, fruit, creamed rice—a couple of bottles of soft drink, some blocks of chocolate, a small box of cereal and some long-life milk. I zipped up my backpack, slipped it back on, and felt its weight.
    I took the little wind-up flashlight from my backpack’s side pocket, flicked it on and wound it up bright to look around on the floor in the back aisle. There was rotting food on the tiles, melting and stewing, and bags of frozen food ripped apart and plundered where they lay—dogs, maybe rats, had been here. I remembered hearing somewhere that Manhattan had like seventeen million rats for every person. Maybe it was a joke, but if that were true, it’d now be more like seventeen billion to one. Maybe they were swarming under the city, somewhere warm probably, smarter than me, thriving in this new world . . . I headed for Central Park.

6
    T he friendly Chasers were gone. Where they’d been, the ground was littered with empty plastic bottles—lumps sticking out from the snow, undisturbed since the overnight snowfall. All around me was just white-gray slush, not even a set of telltale footprints.
    Had Felicity made contact with them and followed them somewhere? Or, if she hadn’t, why hadn’t she returned to her home last night? On that little video screen she’d looked fit, healthy, capable. Surely if she was okay she would have gone back home. You’d run through the rain and dust and ash—you’d stop at nothing to be with your friends and family, even if all you had left were the remainders of them in an empty home.
    A steel drum was overturned. I looked in it—ash. I took off a glove and felt the drum. It was cold, but not freezing cold, like the fire had gone out overnight, just a few hours before. I rolled the burned-out shell a few times, unsettling its black-gray contents, and looked inside at a tiny glowing ember. I thought about taking it out, putting it in my pocket, having its warmth travel with me, but if they returned, they’d need it more than me.
    Maybe they’d simply run out of fuel or drink—I could see neither nearby—and gone on a re-supply trip. They could soon be back with more supplies. Or perhaps they’d set up camp at the next spot that provided what they needed, and they’d keep moving on like that. Either way, there was nothing here for me now.
    I stood, leaving their things behind with a final look, and began walking east, towards the sun. Exiting the park, I passed thick shrubbery and saw the back of a still figure. Sleeping once, now covered in snow and ice, long lost into a never-ending dream. I approached slowly and retched when I saw the bloodstains. I rolled the body over with my foot. Its head was featureless, its face gnawed away, the miniature work of rats or some other scavenger.
    That will never happen to me, no matter what.
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    I followed the tire tracks of the soldiers’ trucks, black grooves in the pristine white landscape down to the ash on the blacktop. At the corner of Fifth Avenue, I stopped under the awning of the Plaza Hotel. The tracks turned south and soon became impossible to see. Looking north, the shattered remnants of everything in this street were disappearing in the driving snow. Visibility was no more than a block in either direction.
    This was not a day for exploring or being trapped out in the elements. I needed someplace safe, somewhere close.
    Across the street, the Pulitzer Fountain was dark, full of black water. Snow was falling hard now. My face was cold, my feet were freezing. The wind around my ears made me feel that at any moment there could be someone coming up behind me. I could never shut out thoughts like