August 16

I was exhausted in the morning. My mind was racing all night, and I just couldn't stop going over the plan over and over, mostly imagining the worst. What if Mom or Dad caught me lying? What if May or I slip up and Mom and Dad ground us for life? Endless what ifs swam through my mind, keeping me up long after midnight.

In the morning, before everyone woke up, I put five cans into a backpack for Charles: two carrots, two brussel sprouts, and one cherry, and dumped some random towels in there so that the cans wouldn't clang against each other too loud. After I put the backpack away, hidden enough from view that Mom and Dad and the rest of them wouldn't find the backpack and open it up and find the cans. After that, it was just waiting.

And was the waiting painful.

"Is something special happening today?" Mira asked. "Like between you and Charles?"

"No, I don't think so," I replied. "Why?"

"You just seem so nervous today."

I shrugged my shoulders, just wishing she would stop talking and just go. I didn't think that I could handle another conversation, especially with all the anxiety that was pent up in my head.

"Is everything alright?" she asked and gave me that look that made me feel guilty for just ignoring her as her gaze became more investigative.

I had to say something to at least make sure she isn't suspicious about my palms shaking from nervousness. I couldn't let the plan fail.

"Have you ever felt—" I said but stopped myself.

"Felt like what?"

"Like nervous before meeting with someone that you haven't met in a while," I replied. "Especially if that someone is your friend."

"Hasn't it been a week since you both met?"

"I know, but it has felt like a lot longer than that. Everyday feels like forever, you know."

"Yeah," she said. "It's how I feel when I think of—"

She paused but I understood who she was talking about. It's been ten days since he has left, but it felt like decades, the days stretching on and on and on until the next day rolls around.

"You don't have to talk about it," I said.

She looked into the distance. "It's just that in three or however many years it takes for everything to get back to normal, when we meet again, I wonder if everything's going to be the same. Same emotions, same feelings, same normal everything between the both of us."

I didn't know what to say, so she continued, "But most of the time, I'm thinking about the worst-case scenario, where when we meet and there's just nothing between us, like everything between us just became dust the second that turned the key and drove away."

"He's not going to forget," I said. "I mean how can anyone forget about your sneezing photo."

Mira blushed and punched me lightly on the shoulder.

"And even if he did," I said. "Who cares about his opinion, you know? What matters is what you remember, if you understand."

"It's just that I feel like that girl," she said. "The one that just mopes around for the entire book instead of picking herself up and getting over it."

"It's only been ten days. Maybe you need, you know, more time to figure out things."

"Yeah," she said, her words trailing off before adding. "Thanks."

"No problem," I replied, going back to waiting for mid-afternoon to come, hoping that there were no ash storms to derail the plan.

Though the sky threatened to rain ash, by mid-afternoon, there was nothing and it was windless and clear. Maybe the universe did want me to succeed. Just as I was about to leave, Mom asked me, "What's the backpack for?"

I had prepared for this. "I've finished basically all the library books. Just checking out more at the library."

"Okay," she replied. "Make sure to keep your mask on."

"Yeah, I know." I pulled open the door and left home, a backpack full of cans and a mind filled with lies, trudging across roads covered with ash, the last of the bright autumn leaves getting dulled and coated by the dust.

The walk to the library was quiet, the air still, the only sounds being my shoes crunching against the flakes of ash on the sidewalk. All of a sudden, I started thinking about the beginning of sixth grade, where everyone in the neighborhood actually talked with each other, all of us kids gathering around and painting the sidewalks with vivid chalk. I just wish I could go back, away from everything that's happening now. The sun on my cheeks, the aroma of sunscreen wafting around, my hands dusted with green and blue chalk. There's nothing that can replace those summer afternoons

When I went to the library, I spotted Charles outside wearing a small backpack. He waved at me, and I waved back as I walked closer. He looked worse than last week, but not as bad as a couple weeks back when he looked really sick. I hope I'm doing enough for them.

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"Took you long enough," he said. "I've been waiting here for an hour."

"You know, mid-afternoon isn't the most specific of times," I replied. "You should be more specific."

"Well I would if I had an actual clock."

I stood in front of him. "What's the backpack for?"

"What's your backpack for?" he asked.

"Decided to bring the cans early," I said. "Just because last Friday was just messy, you know. Anyways, what's your backpack for?"

"It's for," he said before reaching into his backpack and pulling out a clear glass jar. "This."

"A jar?" I asked. "For what?"

"Well, something that I've always wanted to do was to make a collection of pebbles—"

"Wait, what?" I said, cutting him off. "Haven't you always said that collecting things is a waste of time and money? Especially those coin collectors."

He smiled a bit. "Always is a bit of an exaggeration, it's more like the past few weeks. Everyday has felt like forever."

"I guess, yeah," I replied as a gust of wind kicked up a cloud of ash. We moved closer to the library door as dust settled in the cracks surrounding the library pillars, "But why pebbles? Why not coins or shells?"

"Definitely not shells because of the whole beach situation. I mean, do you really want to go back to the beach?"

"Yeah, I think I'll pass."

"As for coins, I don't know," he said and kicked the ground with his shoes, though I had a sneaking suspicion that he knew. "I guess I just want something permanent to have in my room."

I understood what he meant, about everything his family sacrificed to keep food on the table, so I switched the topic. "Where are we going?"

He was probably relieved by the topic change too. "Probably the nearby creek near the train tracks."

"We're not going to be breaking into your old house again, are we?"

"Now that you've said it," he said, rubbing his chin with his hand in an exaggerated thinking motion. "That would be a better idea."

"Great, let's add another breaking and entering to our post-apocalypse felony list. What do we even have so far?"

"Breaking and entering number one, trespassing," he replied, ticking off his fingers. "Probably loitering right now since we're not using the library."

"Also, the seagull thing," I added. "On the beach back in June."

"The apocalypse has turned us into real criminals," he said and we both chuckled. It's ironic that talking and laughing about everything that's happening is probably the most normal thing we both did today. Sometimes, the world leads people to weird places.

"Anyways," he said. "We better go."

I started walking behind him before stopping. "Oh yeah, I was supposed to be checking out books today."

Charles pointed at the library, its lights dark with no shadows moving behind the black tinted windows. "It's closed today. The old volunteer left and the new one only comes on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays."

"When did all of this happen?"

He shrugged. "Things just happen, I guess. You excited for stone picking?"

"So excited," I said, both mockingly and sarcastically. Charles punched me in the shoulder, and I feigned hurt.

"Might as well add battery to your post-apocalyptic criminal record."

He smiled and started walking away from me as I trailed behind him. "We're not actually going to your old house. Right?"

"We actually are," he replied and turned back to me, pausing for a second. "Now, let's go."

So we began walking towards his old house, the air deathly still except for our words and the occasional crunch of leaves underneath our footsteps. There was this buzz in the air, not from an oncoming lightning storm or from the glow of the halogen street lights, but the electricity keeping our hearts beating and voices alive.

Sorry if that was too poetic. I guess I've just been dreaming about lights and the internet and TV and everything that comes with electricity. Even after two months of no power, I still haven't gotten used to this new reality.

When I got to his old house's backyard and stared at the river, there was just something wrong about it. The skeletal oak tree, the tire swing coated with ash, the shrubs and grasses by the creek wilted and dead, the edges of the river rimmed with ash. I could feel the memory of the warm summer evening and the stars sprawled across the sky crumble through my fingers like dust, and I nearly shut my eyes to stop it from happening.

"The river looks..." He paused and sighed. "Sad."

"More than sad. It looks like the death of everything," I wanted to say, but the best I could muster up was, "Yeah."

"Hopefully, we'll find something cool," he replied and pointed at the sky. "You know what people say: You can only find a silver lining on a cloudy day. Literally."

"That was so cheesy," I said, smiling a bit. "That was like Leon-level cheesy."

"Well then he must've had good taste."

We walked down the slope and sat on the rocks on the banks of the creek, looking through the pebbles lining the outer rim of the stream. Charles grabbed a pebble off the ground and examined it. "These pebbles suck. They're all grey."

"Maybe it's the ash," I replied. "Try washing them in the river."

Charles walked up to the slow-moving creek and dipped with pebble in there with his fingers. "The water's freezing."

"Obviously," I replied back. "It's like forty degrees right now."

"I wonder when everything's going to freeze over," Charles said and picked up the pebble from the water, gazing at it. "It's going to be so weird seeing everything covered with snow."

"Did the water make it better?"

"No," he replied. "It's still gray."

He threw it into the stream, and it dropped with a ripple. I stood up and began to scour the riverbanks for cooler stones. "You know what we really need? One of those rock polishers."

"Honestly, yeah," he replied, picking up another stone. "Hey, I found a yellow-ish one."

I stooped down and picked up a random stone before turning and standing. "And I found a..."

I looked at the rock. It was probably the dullest gray-brown pebble in the world, and there was nothing positive to say about it.

"A brown one," he replied, cutting me off. "I think my yellow one wins my default."

He held his stone in front of me. It was bright yellow, like the color of egg yolk or the sun.

"Did you paint the stone?" I asked, trying to prove him wrong, whatever that meant.

"Nope," he replied. "A real, authentic yellow colored stone."

"Let me see it closer," I said, and he closed his fist around the stone.

"Nope," he said, smiling and putting the stone in his pocket. "You know what we should do. Let's see who can find the best stones. Ten minutes to find ten pebbles. Winner gets bragging rights."

"Let's do this."

"Game on," he replied and stooped over to search for small pebbles.

I went the opposite direction and scoured the floor for pops of red or orange or any other color but gray and grayish brown. Picking up a stone, I brushed off the dust from the faded pink rock and dipped it in the river water to brighten the colors. My fingers numb, I pulled out the rock and saw the sharpened pink glow. I pocketed the stone and scoured the ground for the next one.

I spent the next ten minutes collecting a variety of pebbles, light red ones, orange rust-tinted ones, dull malachite turquoise ones, spotted ones while searching for the crown jewel for my collection. Every minute or so, Charles would shout out, "Wow! Look at what I found. There's no way that you're going to beat this." or "Prepare to get demolished," to which I'd shout back, "Whatever you say."

In the dead brush, I saw a flash of turquoise. It was a weathered piece of glass, edges dull and color gray-ish from the ash. After washing it in the river, the turquoise shone bright blue. That was my winning stone.

"You ready?" I asked him.

"Always," he replied. "Let's do this."