Eighteen days in. The thermometer read negative fifty-eight degrees.
I sat in the armchair by the window reading a book, while Snowball curled up warm on my lap, her tail covering her nose. In the corner, the diesel heater rumbled a low, steady purr. The number on the thermostat never once dipped below seventy.
Back in the kitchen, beef broth bubbled away in a pot. I chopped the last half of a carrot and tossed it in, followed by a heaping spoonful of tomato paste and a tiny pinch of dried thyme. Spices were hard currency in the apocalypse.
In my past life, we'd gnawed through ration bars until our gums bled. Scott told me that once we ran out of supplies, we'd go together.
When he said it, he'd squeezed my hand tight, his eyes glowing with that devout, steady look of the most faithful
