July 26

I went to the garden by myself today. I told Mom that I was going to be gone for an hour because Charles needed me at the garden.

"And he's going to be there?" Mom asked.

"Yeah," I said. "He's there every day."

"Tell him to stay indoors more," Mom said. "And be back soon."

Today was another quiet walk to the garden that was interrupted by a loud honk from a distant car. Another person gone, probably fleeing to Texas or Mexico, where life is better and less ashy. I could hear the soft rumble of waves and the rustle of the falling leaves. The sweetgum trees lining our roads have been shedding their leaves like it's autumn, cluttering the roads with bright reds and oranges, shining bright in this gray world.

There was a note on the fence to the entrance of the garden.

Be more generous with the watering. I came here yesterday, and the soil was dry. Charles. PS. I've figured out number two. Make sure to bring boots on Thursday.

Boots? I'm not sure why we'd be using boots when sneakers would work just fine, but I have a strong idea about where we'd be going. There's only one place wet enough to need boots. The beach and all those abandoned mansions.

Why'd he want to go back to the beach? Especially after last time and the body that we found. But it's his wish, and I can only hope that it's worth it.

There was a watering pail next to the faucet and a pair of gardening gloves near the base of the shed. I checked the inside of the gloves to make sure that there weren't any spiders or insects crawling around. Watering the plants was an easy, menial task that felt strange considering that the world is crumbling around us. Maybe that's why Charles loves gardening because it's an escape from our chaotic times.

I put on the gardening gloves and started weeding, but there wasn't much to do. The lack of sunlight is even killing the hardiest plants in the world. I went and checked the shed. There was a lock on the door, but it turns out that the lock was broken, and there was a wealth of insecticides, fertilizers, and tools inside. We could use a lot of these, especially the fertilizer, for the pseudo greenhouse that we're trying to build in the garage.

But I decided not to take it. I know there's a part of me that is telling me to take it. It'll help our family and someone else will eventually find out about the shed and take those supplies away. But I can't take it. For right now, It feels wrong to steal things that are supposed to be community supplies. If things get worse, then maybe I'll change my mind.

When I came back home, I was greeted by the clanging of dishes and pots. I walked into the kitchen and saw jars and boiling pots of water.

"What is happening here?" I asked.

"Canning," Mom said. "Leon knows how to do it, and now's a great time to get it done."

"I thought Dad does the cooking stuff," I said.

"Dad is hiding in his room," May said. "He's supposed to be doing some 'important business.' I think he just doesn't want to be around Leon."

"Do you guys need me for anything?" I asked.

"Yeah," May said. "They're making bread out—"

"Bread? Aren't we splurging a little."

"No," May said. "Might as well make it now while we still can."

"You know, because of the gas situation," she added. "They'll teach you how to knead the bread and stuff."

I walked out, and saw Leon and Mira kneading the bread. They were pretty engrossed in their conversation, and I didn't want to interrupt them, so I just walked around awkwardly until they finished whatever they were talking about, probably something about college.

"Oh, Neal. You're here," Mira said when she turned around after I waited for a solid five minutes.

"You can just give me the dough, and I'll just knead it in the living room," I said. "Not to disturb your conversation."

"You should stay," she said and turned to Leon. "I believe you two haven't met yet."

"No we haven't," Leon said.

"Well. This'll be a perfect time for an icebreaker," she said. "I'm going to leave my favorite boyfriend and my favorite brother—"

"I'm your only brother," I retorted.

She ignored me. "—here to bond with each other. I'll be in the kitchen, helping Mom and May," she said, and I tried shooting daggers from my eyes at her.

Leon and I were stuck in the same room. He moved over next to me with a bowl filled with dough. My heart started beating faster, and for some reason, I started sweating. I think it was because I hadn't spoken to a new person for two months now.

"I'm Leon," he said and put out his hand.

"Neal," I said and shook it.

"So," he said. "The basics for kneading bread are that you want to stretch out the bread a bit. It's alright to be a bit tough on kneading. You want to use the heel of your palm to do most of the pushing, and you want to fold the bread often. When the bread is firm enough for it to hold its shape, you can stop kneading."

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"Okay," I said.

I pushed at the dough and rolled it around a bit on the counter. "That's good," he said. "You're pushing a little hard, but, yeah, you're doing fine."

"Thanks," I said and continued folding and stretching out the dough.

We worked in silence for a bit. It was a peaceful silence, only interrupted by the clanging of dishes in the kitchen and the slapping of dough on the wooden boards under the flour balls. "So what do you like to do in your free time?" he asked.

"Read," I said and shrugged.

"That's cool," he said. "Any favorite genres."

"Anything's fine," I said. "Don't really have any preferences."

"None?"

"None," I said.

We didn't really talk a lot after that other than asking to pass some flour or dough. It was very awkward between us. This is the exact reason why I hate being stuck in the same room as someone that I don't really know. It feels impossible to hold a conversation. I hate being so socially awkward.

It feels like a miracle that the rest of the day went along better. For dinner, we all had fresh bread with canned baked beans along with some peas. Mom and Mira and Leon seemed to be getting along well, and they were sitting at the dining table long after Dad ran off to his office for his "official business," and May and I went to our room.

We just stared at the wall until we got tired. There was nothing much to do.

July 27

I had bread with some peanut butter today. It was a little bit crusty, but it tasted like heaven. I guess this is what eating canned food for days and days does to you.

All the adults were working on trying to make the whole greenhouse thing work. The biggest issue right now is heat. Every single day is getting colder and colder. Mom and Dad have brought out old blankets and dusted off some of the lint that was building up on them. We've got an old heater in the garage, but it takes a lot of power to use, and with the sun out, we've got no ability to generate a significant amount of electricity.

Dad was being a little snarky today. I don't know what his anger at Leon is about. It all seems to be irrational and pointless. Mom agrees with me too, but she's too tired to argue about this with him.

"We need more batteries," Dad said. "If the sun comes out, we want to store as much electricity as we can for winter."

"None of the stores are open," Mira replied.

"We can drive around and see," Dad said.

"No gas," Mom said. "Driving is too dangerous. Attracts too much attention."

"We need all the batteries that we can find," Dad said. "At this rate, the ground is going to be frozen by mid-September, and the heaters need a lot of power to work."

"Why don't we just use the fireplace?" Mira asked.

"Think about it, Mira," Dad said. "How are we going to be able to keep the plants warm all night? Fireplaces are too hard to maintain."

Mira didn't say much back.

"Lucky for us," Dad said. "We do have a car here with gas."

He nudged his head to Leon, and everyone stared at him. "I— The car— I need— I haven't got enough gas in the car."

Dad looked at him skeptically. "You had enough to get here. I'll go check. There should be plenty."

"Dad," Mira said. "What's your problem?"

She turned to Leon. "You don't need to listen to my Dad."

"No," he said. "I mean it's fine. But I think we could harvest car batteries from the unused cars. And we could build some pedal electricity generators with the bikes."

"Does anyone here know how to remove car batteries?" Dad asked, and no one responded. "That's what I thought."

"We should work on this some other time," Mom said. "We're not getting anything productive done. Hopefully, a breath of fresh air will help everyone work better."

So Mom and Dad left the garage, and Leon and Mira took off their gloves.

"So long for that wish," Leon said.

"What wish?"

"Your Dad not hating me," he said. "I can literally feel his contempt."

"Dad is being a jerk," Mira said. "It's infuriating. You know he still treats me like I'm some teenager or something."

"I've always said you were young at heart," Leon replied and Mira glared at him before breaking into a soft chuckle.

"But I mean, it's so frustrating," Mira said. "I feel like when we get along best is when I'm doing the listening and he's doing the talking, but as soon as I want to do something, all of a sudden it's just unacceptable."

"I mean, it's our parents," he said. "That's what they do. When my older brother— have you met him?"

"I don't think so," Mira said.

"Phillip. He's taller than me, darker hair."

"Definitely not."

"Oh," he said. "But anyway, when he went to college, my parents literally stalked him."

"Like literally stalked him?" Mira asked. "Or figuratively?"

"Literal stalking," Leon said. "They called at least twice a day and cyber-stalked his social media accounts and friends. Once every week, they'd drive up north to meet him, and they'd have lunch and—"

"What's the point?" Mira asked.

"Our parents are overprotective," he said. "They feel like their decisions are best for you even though you might not agree. Sometimes independence scares them. No, most of the time, it scares them."

"But how can I make this overprotectiveness stage pass quicker," Mira said.

"I don't know," Leon said. "I'm the second child, not the oldest one."

"So you told me a whole story, and then you can't even help me with this problem," Mira said. "You're terrible at giving advice."

"It's why I never wanted to be a counselor," he said, and they both laughed.

The rest of the day went by pretty quietly except for when Mom and Dad duked it out in their room. May and I could hear it. Luckily, Mira was still hanging out in the garage with Leon, so I didn't hear much.

"What is going on with you?" Mom asked Dad.

"Nothing. Nothing is going on," Dad said.

"Don't lie to me," Mom said. "You've been harassing Leon ever since he's gotten here."

"What am I supposed to do if some boy just comes in and proposes to my daughter?" he asked. "I haven't even met the kid."

"Don't you trust Mira's judgement," Mom said. "She's an adult. She has a right to choose whoever is best for her."

"If this boy is going to be a part of our family, then I have a right to get to know him."

"Getting to know him is fine," Mom said. "But you don't need to be cruel. You can ask him about his family or his childhood or his favorite whatever, but you don't need to put him on the spot and force him to do something he clearly does not want to do."

"Mira's not your baby girl anymore," Mom said. "If she wants to get married to Leon, then she'll get married. We'll clap and be happy for them, and if she wants to leave, then we won't stand in her way."

"So you're just going to let her leave," Dad said. "We might never see her again."

"But if he leaves, Mira might never see him again. And if he stays, he'll never see his family again," Mom said. "Someone is going to lose something, and we'll have to be selfless enough to be the ones to make that sacrifice."

Dad began to breathe heavily. Was he crying? "You know that I love Mira."

"Of course," Mom said. "You two have always butted heads. Both of you guys are stubborn as bulls."

"And I'll love her," Mom added. "Even if she chooses to leave."

Mom and Dad began to talk in quieter voices. If I wanted to, I could've taken a glass to their door and listened, but it felt wrong. Some things are best kept as secrets.

I managed to find some old hiking boots in the closet for Charles' trip tomorrow. They don't fit that well since they were from a couple years ago, but I think I'll be fine. I'll only be using them for a couple of hours anyways.

I'm trying not to think about the body by the ocean, but I can't help it. Every time someone turns on the water, I can't help but to think of the waves rolling and crashing by the beach houses and that rotting body. Every time the tide pulls closer to our house and the stench of the rotting seaweed of the ocean wafts into our house, I think of the drooping flesh and grayish carcass. I've been able to suppress these thoughts, but after Charles' note, I can't stop thinking about it.

Hopefully the nightmares don't come back.