July 23

Pretty tame day for the food distribution. After last week's council meeting and the anger in the room, I expected more chaos. I guess the best of people were brought out with a nice inspirational speech.

The rations are getting smaller. Last week, I counted ten cans in the bag. This week, there were only eight cans and two of mine were measly cans of tuna and spam, less than half the size of the cans of string beans and corn. We're really running out of food. I wonder when the food distribution is going to stop.

I saw May adjusting the spreadsheet, erasing and rewriting numbers. "What are you doing?" I asked.

"You know what I'm doing," she said. "Don't play dumb."

"You can't keep doing this," I said. "Mom and Dad are going to keep closer track of the food supplies, and they'll find out."

"I'm so hungry all the time—"

"We all are," I said.

"Two cans per day are ridiculous," she said. "And I'm tired all the time."

"I'm not taking as many as before," she continued. "Just one extra can a week. One can won't make any difference in our lives."

"Just please stop—"

"What are guys talking about stopping?" Mira asked and looked down on us.

I couldn't think of an excuse, but May whipped out a quick response. "We were just talking about whether we should revisit the beach. I think Neal's pretty annoyed by my nagging."

"Why don't you run that idea by Mom?"

"Nah," May said and left the room. "You know Mom. She's extra paranoid about everything. It's a dumb idea anyways."

"So what was that all about?" Mira asked.

"It's nothing," I replied.

"And that's the truth?"

"Yeah," I said. "Nothing important."

I didn't lie to her. Mira knowing that May was taking just one can every week was not important for her or significant for these circumstances. It was a partial truth, but just thinking about it, I feel like it's closer to a lie rather than the unfiltered truth that we promised to each other.

July 24

Mom and Dad had a big freakout this morning, and we've got a guest sleeping on the couch in the living room.

Sometime in the morning, maybe around ten, a dark blue van pulled into our driveway. I was reading the fantasy novel that I checked out a week ago from the library while staring off into the distance. The book I was reading just didn't capture my attention. Nothing seemed to capture my attention at that point, except for a flash of blue outside the window.

"Mom? Dad? I think there's someone in our driveway."

"Are they armed?" Dad asked and rushed towards the window to peer outside.

"They're in their car," I said. "How am I supposed to tell if they were armed or not armed?"

Dad rushing to the window brought Mom and May to the front door. Everyone was pretty much staring at whoever was in the car. It was the first new (and non-gray) thing that showed up.

"That's why they invented glasses," May said. "So that you can use your eyeballs and look around."

"Kids," Mom said. "Get away from the window. They could be dangerous."

"Why would anyone target our house only, out of the thousands of houses in our city," May remarked.

The figure in the car was desperately trying to find something in the compartment that's in front of the passenger seat, moving their hands quickly and seemed visibly frustrated.

"I think they're fumbling with something," I said.

"It's a gun," Dad said and ran to the garage. "I'm going to get the hatchet."

"Isn't that an overreaction," May said. "Maybe they're grabbing some cans for food. They could be sent by the city council."

"No one would put cans in that compartment," Mom said. "They'd stick it in the trunk. Common sense."

"Some people lack common sense," May retorted. "Especially this person. Who would drive a car? That would mean you have gas, and that will make you a target."

"Hey!" I said. "Stop repeating what I said."

"Are you high or something? You never said that."

"I said that to you for your friend's birthday party. If you use the hair curler, everyone will know that we have electricity."

"That was different," she said. "Everyone had electricity back then."

"Whatever you say," I said.

"What did I miss?" Dad said when he returned, panting.

"Nothing," I said. "They're still looking for whatever they're looking for."

"For a robber, they're awfully ineffective," Mom said.

"Should I go out and confront them," Dad said. "With this?"

"No!" Mom, May, and I said though May added. "That would be pretty funny."

"It's safer in the house," Mom said. "If they had a gun, they'd shoot you before you could even raise that sad hatchet."

"So we're going to wait," I said, and we waited for a solid three minutes before the guy actually came out of the car.

"He's out," May said and sarcastically. "Oh, no. Let's run away. Ahh."

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There was a soft knock on the door. Mom was too scared to peer through the door's peephole.

"Kids," Mom said. "I want you to go into the kitchen and stay away from the door and let the adults deal with this."

"If we don't make it," Dad said. "Then run."

So May and I went into the kitchen and laid low, though we peered from behind the door. We heard a knock, and Dad opened the door.

There was a guy at the door, a white guy with short brown hair and a scruffy beard wearing clothes that were so clean that they were probably washed recently. He was pretty handsome and very confused. Dad held the hatchet and stood in front of the doorway. "What do you want?" Dad said and gripped the hatchet.

The guy's face turned pale white. "Does Mira live here?"

"Mira," Mom said. "Someone is looking for you."

There was no movement in the hallway.

"I think she's still sleeping," May said.

"I'll go wake her up," I said and walked to our bedroom.

"Mira, there's someone waiting for you," I said.

"Neal," she said and yawned. "Stop messing with me. This is a ploy to wake me up isn't it. What do you not want to do: dishes or laundry?"

"It'd be nice if you actually trusted me," I said. "There's someone at the door looking for you. White guy, brown hair with a kinda beard. Does that ring any bells?"

Mira sprang out of bed. "My hair doesn't look too terrible, right?"

"It has had better days," I said. "Just hurry up. I think Dad might kill him."

I went back into the kitchen and laid low. "Has Dad murdered him?"

"No," May said. "No blood spilled yet. Dad's just interrogating him. Just the usual 'I have to be sure that you aren't a secret serial killer that is going to abduct my daughter and dismember her brutally' talk that all movie dads give."

"Great!" I said. "Mira's going to be out soon to sort this out hopefully."

Mira ran out of her room and patted down any strands of hair floating around and walked to the door.

"Mira?" the guy said.

"Leon," she said. He moved past Dad and they hugged. Dad looked shocked, more angry than fainting shock, while Mom looked on awkwardly with a tinge of happiness and confusion.

"I've missed you," she said.

"Me too," he said. "I got your letters—"

"They actually delivered!" Mira exclaimed.

"Yeah, postage still works," he replied. "There are so many things I want to tell you. My family is leaving California for New Mexico in two weeks, and I want you to come with us."

He got down on his knees and pulled out a ring box, which was why he was fumbling with something in the car. "Will you marry me?"

That was a bit sudden.

Everyone gasped. Dad's jaw dropped. I almost laughed. This felt like something that'd happen in the movies— not real life. But then again, a lot of things that happen in the movies do happen in real life. People draw inspiration from lots of different places.

Mira looked flustered, happy but very confused. "I'm not sure if this is the right time. I mean I'd like to, but this all feels a little sudden."

"Oh," he said and looked embarrassed. "That's, that's alright."

"Have you got a place to stay?" she asked.

"My parents are at a relative's place," he said. "It's about twenty miles north of here, pretty close by."

"That's far," she said. "You're staying at our house."

"Will your parents be alright with that?" he said and glanced at Dad still holding the hatchet.

"Yeah," Mira said. "Neal, May. You guys can come out now."

So we walked out from the kitchen, and Mom and Dad and all of us gathered into the living room and did our standard introductions and hand shaking. Honestly, it felt like one of the strangest things that happened this summer because of how normal it was.

We situated him in the living room. Dad said that he could not share a room with Mira (not like there was any room to share with), so Mom grabbed a couple of old blankets and pillows and made a makeshift bed. Mira and he were catching up about everything, so May and I just worked awkwardly on the side organizing books and board games that were scattered around to make our house somewhat presentable.

When it came time for dinner, we all gathered around the dining table. "How many people have we got?" Mom asked.

"Eight," I replied.

"Grab sixteen cans."

"Sixteen! That's a lot more than our two cans a day per person."

"We can't make a bad first impression on our guest," she replied. "Just do it."

I went into the pantry and grabbed sixteen cans filled with a wide assortment of mixed vegetables, corn, broccoli, and peas. I even grabbed an extra can of peaches just in case people wanted to eat dessert. But then I felt guilty about splurging on so much food, so I put the can back. It's better to save it for another day.

Grandma and Grandpa worked in the kitchen, trying to craft a meal out of these canned goods. Grandma seemed happier than usual, probably because she actually gets to do something out of the canned food, not just eating it out of a can.

In the dining room, Dad was interrogating Leon. He asked in a tone that was more akin to a police officer than a parent, "So how did you guys meet?"

"You want to tell him," he said to May with a smile.

"No," she said. "Don't you dare! It's too embarrassing."

"I want to hear it," May said.

"No, Leon. Do not listen to my sister."

"Fine, fine," he said. "It's a story for another day."

"Were there any drugs involved when you guys met? Alcohol?" Dad asked.

"No," Mira said. "It's just an embarrassing little story."

"Don't need to be so negative, Dad," May said.

"I've heard a lot of stories about drug use in college. In March, one of my coworker's daughter's friend's cousin did too many drugs at school and got kicked out of college and—"

"Dad," May said. "They're exaggerating their stories to make their own kids look good. It's just hysteria. Right, Leon?"

"As far as I'm aware, yes," Leon said. "A couple of people got sent to the hospital for alcohol poisoning, but no drug issues as far as I'm aware of."

"Dinner is ready," Dad said and walked to the kitchen. "I'll go grab the food."

"So your Dad," he said to Mira. "Real friendly, huh?"

"He's overprotective," Mira said. "And we have a lot of disagreements. Some that may involve you."

"Oh," he said. "He's never going to like me."

"He'll get around to you. Someday."

Grandma and Grandpa brought out a couple of plates filled with steaming vegetables. There was a big bowl of noodles (which meant that we were splurging since I hadn't brought noodles out from the pantry) with corn and broccoli. There was steamed asparagus with spam that was marinated in soy sauce and a plate of pan-fried mixed vegetables. It smelled so good, especially after days of eating only two cans of food daily.

"This is too much, Mr. and Mrs—"

"No need for the formalities," Mom said. "Just call me Michelle and my husband here, Avi."

"I know a lot of families are struggling, and I feel like I'm a drain—"

"Our family is not struggling," Dad cut in sharply. "We're doing just fine."

Leon blushed. Mom gave a disparaging look at Dad and turned to Leon. "You're our guest," she said. "You don't need to worry about these things."

"I've got food in my car," he said. "I can go bring it out."

Dad opened his mouth, ready to interject. Dad is such a hypocrite. He emphasizes the need to go to the food drive every single week to get food, but when someone offers to give him food, he's going to say no. It makes no sense unless there are some strange pride things happening.

"That would be real helpful," Mom said.

"I can go get it now," he said.

"We can go get it after you finish your food, Leon," Mira said.

We ate dinner after that. Mom talked to Leon a lot, interrogating him like Dad did, but with more honey than vinegar. We found out that he was born and raised in California and went to some small rural high school. His father was of Irish descent, his mother of Italian. He wanted to become an environmental journalist when he graduates— if he ever graduates. "Writing about how the pieces of the puzzle just fit together when you look at everything broadly," he said. "It's pretty amazing."

"Liberal or conservative?" Dad asked all of a sudden.

"Excuse me?" he said. "Can you repeat that?"

"Are you a liberal or a conservative?"

"I grew up with a lot of conservatives, especially in high school, but my parents were liberals and I agree with their values more than the values of my classmates at school."

Dad begrudgingly nodded in approval. He always used to tell us that we could not date or marry anyone conservative. It was like marrying the Devil for Christian— unspeakably sinful.

After we finished dinner, I helped Mom dump the dishes in the sink for tomorrow. Today was such a hectic day and no one wanted to do any more work. Dad, Mira, and Leon went into the driveway and unloaded three boxes packed with food. Mira opened one of them for us: there were the standard canned beans, tomatoes, mixed vegetables, but I spotted a glass jar filled with an amber fluid. It was honey.

"How's you get this?" Mira asked.

"We made it on our farm," he said. "We've got a small bee farm."

There were two large bags of all-purpose wheat flour and a smaller bag of salt. "Are you sure you don't need this?" Mom asked, probably thinking that it was too good to be true.

"Yeah," he said. "Our family has plenty. Don't worry about it."

Mom unpacked the boxes and stacked the cans in the pantry. It was still emptier than what it started with a month ago, but it was fuller than yesterday, and that's what matters.

You know what I forgot. Today was my day for tending the garden. Charles is going to kill me for not watering the plants.