Stockpiling and Suspicion

The morning sunfiltered through the grimy windows of Mira's apartment, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor. She hadn't slept—not after the revelation of her second chance, not with the clock ticking down to the end of everything. Her notebook lay open on the counter, its pages already cramped with lists and scratched-out ideas. She'd spent the pre-dawn hours pacing, plotting, sipping coffee until her nerves buzzed like live wires. Now, with daylight creeping in, it was time to move.

She dressed quickly—jeans, a faded hoodie, sneakers that could handle a sprint if needed. Her reflection in the mirror looked ordinary, unremarkable, but inside, she was a coiled spring, ready to snap. She tucked her phone into her pocket, grabbed her wallet, and slung a backpack over her shoulder. Step one: supplies. She couldn't wait, couldn't risk delays. The world might still be blissfully ignorant, but she wasn't.

The streets outside hummed with early Saturday bustle—cars honking, pedestrians clutching coffee cups, a dog barking at a rogue skateboarder. Mira kept her head down, weaving through the crowd toward the nearest discount store three blocks away. Her mind churned with calculations: canned goods lasted years, water purifiers were compact, batteries were a must. She'd start small, build her stockpile piece by piece. No one could know—not yet.

The store's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as she stepped inside, the air thick with the scent of cheap plastic and stale air conditioning. She grabbed a cart, her fingers tightening around the handle. *Focus*, she told herself. She moved fast, methodical, piling in essentials: cans of tuna, beans, soup; a pack of water filters; a cheap first-aid kit with bandages and antiseptic. She hesitated at the hardware aisle, eyeing a hammer and a box of nails. Reinforcements later—today was about the basics.

At the checkout, the cashier—a bored teenager with neon-green nails—barely glanced at her haul. "Stocking up for winter already?" she mumbled, scanning a can of peaches.

Mira forced a laugh, light and casual. "Yeah, you know how it gets. Never hurts to be prepared." The lie slipped out easily, a skill she'd need to hone. She paid in cash, avoiding her debit card's digital trail, and stuffed everything into her backpack. The weight settled against her spine, a tangible promise of survival.

Back at her apartment, she stashed the goods under her bed, shoving aside old shoeboxes to make room. It wasn't much, but it was a start. She'd need more—way more—and a better hiding spot. Her studio was too small, too exposed. She jotted *storage unit?* in her notebook, then checked the time: 9:45 a.m. Coffee with Lila was in fifteen minutes. Her stomach twisted, but she squared her shoulders. Time to play the game.

Brew Haven was a cozy little café a short walk away, all exposed brick and overpriced lattes. Mira arrived first, claiming a corner table with a clear view of the door. She ordered a black coffee—cheap, no frills—and sipped it slowly, letting the bitterness ground her. Her eyes flicked to her phone, then the entrance, every nerve on edge. She'd see Lila's fake smile soon enough, hear her chirpy voice, and she'd have to smile back like nothing had changed.

The bell above the door jingled, and there she was—Lila, all bouncy blonde curls and thrift-store chic, waving like they were still the inseparable duo from senior year. Mira's jaw tightened, but she waved back, pasting on a grin that felt like a mask.

"Mira! Oh my God, it's been forever!" Lila swooped in, pulling her into a hug. Mira stiffened, the scent of Lila's floral perfume dredging up memories of that last day—the way she'd hugged her then, too, right before the betrayal. "You look great, girl. What's new?"

"Not much," Mira said, sliding back into her seat. "Work's been crazy. You know how it is." She kept her tone light, her eyes scanning Lila's face for cracks. Nothing yet—just the same bubbly façade, oblivious to the storm Mira was brewing.

Lila plopped down, ordering a caramel macchiato with extra whip. "Ugh, tell me about it. I've been swamped with freelance gigs. But Jace keeps me sane—he's been so sweet lately." She giggled, leaning in. "You two still good?"

Mira's grip tightened on her mug, the heat seeping into her palms. "Yeah, we're fine. He texted me last night, actually." Another lie, smooth as silk. She watched Lila's reaction—a flicker of a smile, no guilt, no hint of the future where she'd steal him and everything else.

"Good, good. You guys are so cute together." Lila sipped her drink, leaving a smear of whipped cream on her lip. "Hey, we should hang out more. Maybe a movie night? Jace was saying he misses our group vibes."

"Sure," Mira said, her voice a perfect mimic of enthusiasm. "Let's plan something." Inside, she seethed. Movie night. Like she'd ever let them back into her space, her trust. She'd play along, though—keep them close, let them think they had her fooled.

Their chatter drifted to mundane things—Lila's latest art project, a coworker Mira pretended to care about. But Mira's attention snagged on the TV above the counter, muted but flashing news tickers: *Minor tremor reported downtown. No injuries.* Her pulse quickened. It was starting, the faint ripples of what she knew would come. She filed it away, forcing herself to nod at Lila's ramblings.

"You okay?" Lila asked suddenly, tilting her head. "You seem… distracted."

Mira blinked, caught off guard. "Yeah, just tired. Didn't sleep much." She flashed a sheepish smile, deflecting. "Late-night Netflix binge."

Lila laughed, buying it. "Girl, you need to chill. Take a nap or something." She reached across the table, patting Mira's hand. The touch sent a jolt through her, a mix of rage and revulsion, but she didn't flinch. Not yet.

They parted ways after an hour, Lila promising to text about that movie night. Mira watched her go, her silhouette disappearing into the crowd, and let the mask drop. Her hands shook as she dumped her cold coffee in the trash, the bitter taste lingering on her tongue. She'd done it—played the part, kept her cover. But it had cost her, stoking the fire inside until it roared.

Back home, she didn't stop moving. She hauled out a duffel bag from her closet, stuffing it with more supplies she'd scavenged from her kitchen: half a box of granola bars, a jar of peanut butter, a dented can of soup she'd forgotten about. Every item was a brick in her fortress, a shield against the chaos she knew was coming. She checked her bank account online—$2,347.62. Not enough, not nearly, but she could stretch it. She'd hit up Tony the mechanic tomorrow, see what he could offer under the table. For now, she needed a plan B.

Her phone buzzed—Jace again: *Hey babe, how's your day going? Lila said coffee was fun.* Mira stared at the screen, her thumb hovering. She could ignore him, let the silence fester, but that might tip them off. She typed back: *Good, yeah. Missed you tho. Work soon, ttyl.* Short, sweet, enough to keep him on the hook.

She tossed the phone aside, pacing again. The tremor on the news gnawed at her. Last time, she hadn't paid attention to the early signs—small quakes, odd weather, hushed reports of a flu strain overseas. Now, she saw them for what they were: harbingers. She grabbed her notebook, adding *monitor news* and *check seismic activity*. Knowledge was power, and she'd wield it like a weapon.

A knock at her door froze her mid-step. She wasn't expecting anyone. Her heart thudded as she crept to the peephole, peering out. A man stood there—tall, wiry, with dark hair and a leather jacket, his hands shoved in his pockets. She didn't recognize him. "Who is it?" she called, her voice steady despite the adrenaline spiking through her.

"Name's Kai," he said, his tone low, clipped. "Live downstairs. Heard you moving around all night—everything okay?"

Mira hesitated. Nosy neighbors were the last thing she needed. "Yeah, fine. Just… rearranging stuff." She kept the chain on, cracking the door an inch. His eyes met hers—sharp, gray, unsettlingly perceptive.

He nodded, but didn't leave. "Good. Just checking. Things are gonna get weird soon—keep your eyes open." Before she could respond, he turned and walked off, his boots echoing down the hall.

Mira shut the door, locking it tight. Weird? What did he know? She shook it off, chalking it up to city paranoia, but his words lingered, a splinter in her mind. She scribbled *Kai—downstairs* in her notebook, underlining it twice. Ally or threat, she'd figure him out later.

The day stretched into evening, and Mira kept working—sorting supplies, researching storage units online, mapping out her next moves. She ate a granola bar for dinner, barely tasting it, her focus razor-sharp. Lila and Jace's faces flashed in her mind, their betrayal a drumbeat driving her forward. She wouldn't just survive this time—she'd thrive, and they'd regret ever crossing her.

Outside, the city hummed on, oblivious. But Mira felt the shift, the faint tremble beneath her feet, the whisper of a world about to break. Ninety days. She'd would be ready.