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You check the time—9:30 am.

A knock comes from the back door—several quick knuckle raps. You leap from your seat and rush to the kitchen, wondering who could possibly be there. You forget the rules of the apocalypse for a moment and open the door before checking to see who it is first.

"Hello, Luth," a woman says. She stands with her back to the side of the house, hands tucked snugly in the front pockets of her skinny jeans. She's tall and lithe but wears a baggy T-shirt with the logo of the Two Turtles Tavern, a bar in the area, and a Rockies baseball cap. You see no weapons or gear and notice sandals on her feet. It's Rachel, Vince's cousin. You haven't seen her in months, maybe a year. She comes to visit him every so often, staying for weeks at a time, and often would greet you in passing. The relationship always remained neighborly, from collecting mail delivered to your house while you were on vacation to bringing over a tray of fresh-cooked brownies. Once, she jump-started a dead battery in your car.

"Hi," you say blankly. "Can I help you?"

"Most likely. Mind if I come in?"