Aftermath

Day Three

"Good thing I've got you to keep me in check," she shot back, her grin widening.

Despite the tension in the air, the brief exchange brought a flicker of ease between them. The weight of their journey remained, but moments like this—small and unexpected—made it feel just a little less heavy.

For the first time in days, the tension in the room eased. Imogene felt a glimmer of hope stir in her chest. The road ahead would be uncertain and fraught with danger, but at least now, they had a direction.

The morning passed in a blur of movement as they packed up what they could. Imogene dug into the storage closet, her heart pounding as she unearthed long-forgotten camping supplies. Sleeping bags, a tent, a flashlight, and a solar-powered charger that doubled as a radio—it felt too much like packing for a weekend in the mountains for her liking.

In the kitchen, she loaded a cardboard box with cans of food: soup, beans, and a dented can of peaches she'd found at the back of the pantry. Dry beans joined the pile, along with a few granola bars she'd almost forgotten about. She filled empty milk jugs and orange juice bottles with water, the makeshift containers wobbling precariously as she carried them to the truck. The first aid kit was an obvious grab, but she also tossed in an old sewing kit that had belonged to her mother, the spool of thread and tiny scissors sparking a pang of bittersweet memory.

Sam emerged from the garage, hauling a heavy toolbox and a portable gas can. His face was streaked with sweat and grease, his shirt clinging to his back.

"You really think the solar charger's gonna hold up?" he asked, nodding toward the device Imogene had set beside the pile of gear.

"It's better than nothing," she replied, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. "If we lose the truck's battery, at least we'll still have some way to power the flashlight or radio."

He grunted, throwing the toolbox into the truck bed with a loud thud. "Fair. Just don't count on it for too much. These things are finicky as hell."

Imogene looked at him, hands on her hips. "You got a better idea?"

Sam smirked, shaking his head. "Nope. Just reminding you who's gonna end up fixing it when it craps out."

She rolled her eyes but couldn't help a small smile. "You're a real optimist, you know that?"

"I'm a realist," he shot back, grabbing a tarp and securing the pile of gear with bungee cords. "Optimism gets you killed out there." The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp. Imogene stared at the truck bed, the small mountain of supplies that now felt woefully inadequate.

"I'm not being optimistic," she said quietly, her voice barely audible over the rustling breeze. "I just can't stay here anymore. I can't—"

Sam's gaze softened as he leaned against the side of the truck. "I get it, Imogene. I do. I just... don't want us rushing into this blind. We've seen how fast things can go wrong."

She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. "That's why we have a plan. Apartment first, then his office. And if neither pans out..." She hesitated, gripping the edge of the truck. "Then we figure it out."

"Figure it out," Sam repeated, his tone skeptical but not dismissive. "Okay. But let's not kid ourselves—this could take days, maybe longer. We need to think about fuel, where to sleep, and how far we can stretch what we've got."

"We'll find more supplies on the way," she said, though her voice lacked the confidence she wanted it to have.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "You're banking on 'finding' stuff? That's risky, Imogene. What if there's nothing left?"