I am afraid tonight’s installment is a bit brief. As some of you know, I am recovering from orthopedic surgery on my left arm. I’ve come a long way in my recovery and I’m doing well, but some days it just really hurts. Today is one of those days. I did my best. It’s not a lot, but I’ve kept my promise to myself and to you that I would write every day, even if it was just a sentence.
Clara stirred the morning oatmeal and she daydreamed of bacon and eggs and hot coffee with fresh cream. All of those things still existed, of course. There were enterprising people with hothouses and grow lights and armed guards who still kept cattle and chickens and pigs, who grew vegetables and fresh fruit. But they were very expensive, far beyond the means of a single mother nurse who worked in one of the less recovered cities.
Clara jumped when there was a pounding on the door. Sophie looked up from her lessons with a pinched and worried face. Who would knock? Stacey usually walked right in. Clara wiped her hands on her jeans and peered out the peephole. The blurry figure looked human – no obvious fur or fangs or any of the other markers of Nightkind. She left the chain on but cracked open the door, “Hello?”
The man in fatigues in the hall touched his finger to his cap, “Clara Miller? Joe Turner sent me. You need to pack your things. We have to evacuate.”
And that’s all I can manage tonight, my friends. Rest well and dream sweet, hopefully I’ll have a longer installment for you tomorrow.