"Hi! Welcome!" Emmy exclaimed.

The shoe covers sat in a basket beside the door. Most people didn't need reminders.

Rhonda had needed three.

She was a lovely neighbor, though recently she'd begun forgetting things. Emmy had learned to take some of her ideas with a few grains of salt.

Rhonda said the covers were excessive.

Emmy smiled and apologized. There was no sense upsetting Rhonda; she'd just lost her husband of fifty-three years.

Still, Emmy tried to keep an open mind—we all come from different paths. Rhonda's increasing habit of walking barefoot through Walmart parking lots, however, made objectivity difficult.

It was a pleasant afternoon. Rhonda stayed for two cups of tea and half a lemon bar with hidden whey protein.

Emmy would have offered a third cup, but Rhonda was already growing tired.

"They're leftovers," Emmy said, “can I send you home with some?”

They were not leftovers. The ladies performed this song and dance every week; Emmy just didn’t want to see her neighbor surviving on Belvita cookies and grief.

After the door closed, Emmy checked the weather.

A heatwave was coming.

At six the next morning, she found Grandma in front of the television.

"BE PREPARED!" the meteorologist warned.

Emmy casually checked her inventory.

Thirty gallons should be enough for two adults and four cats.

Grandma found her rotating water by expiration date.

"Surely we don't need all this water."

"Of course not," Emmy replied. "It's for everyone else."

What Emmy didn't mention was that thirty gallons was the recommended amount for two adults and four cats for seventy-two hours.

There was house water.

Evacuation water.

Car water.

The calculations were more reliable than the weather prediction itself. So, she thought.

The heatwave arrived.

The wind did not.

The power stayed on.

The water remained untouched.

A week later, Grandma opened one of the go-bags.

"Why are there Sour Patch Kids next to chlorine tablets?"

Emmy looked up.

“Well, every emergency guide talked about the importance of maintaining morale.”

Emmy thought that made perfect sense.

"It reminded me of school."

It was like elementary school earthquake drills. Parents carefully packed little Ziploc bags with flashlights, treats, and something fun that kids only got to play with during drills or emergencies.

Grandma nodded; "Mhmm," she replied, trying not to roll her eyes.

Emergencies were frightening enough without being miserable too.

The Sour Patch Kids stayed.

Summer rolled on.

The water sat.

The generator sat.

The go-bags sat.

The inventories grew.

Then the wildfire came.

The evacuation zone stopped four blocks east.

Wind rattled the windows.

Trees scraped the house.

Rhonda knocked on the door.

She was frightened.

"Do you have supplies?" Emmy asked.

Rhonda stared blankly.

"Come in."

Smoke rolled into the neighborhood by evening.

Rhonda started coughing.

"I left my inhaler at home."

Every preparation Emmy had made suddenly felt very small.

Then Rhonda grabbed her chest.

The next hour happened too quickly for lists.

Rhonda's car blocked the driveway.

The go-bags stayed in the hallway.

The inventories stayed on the shelf.

Emmy grabbed Rhonda’s keys and drove.

Hours later, she returned from the hospital exhausted.

She fell into bed wearing the same clothes she'd worn in the waiting room.

She forgot to shower.

Forgot to sanitize.

Forgot her mask.

Forgot every protocol.

She waited for the other shoe to drop.

Ten days later she waited.

Thirty days later she stopped checking.

Six months later, neither she nor Grandma had fallen ill.

Rhonda was alive. Rhonda was well.

That was the only outcome Emmy could say for certain made her heart full..

One afternoon she met a woman named Simone.

They talked about the wildfire.

"We had a case of Costco water and some protein bars," Simone said with a laugh. "We survived."

Emmy mentally did the math.

The numbers made no sense.

That evening Emmy stood in the garage.

The water remained untouched.

The generator had never run.

A thin ring of rust had formed on the gasoline barrel.

The calculations were accurate.

Her predictions were not always.

Inside, Grandma was laughing at a game show.

Rhonda was home.

The cats were asleep.

The emergency candy had somehow become everyday candy – turns out dopamine is equally as useful in daily life as it is crisis.

Emmy closed the garage door.

For the first time in years, she left without taking inventory.

© Copyright 2026 Anna Brookes. All rights reserved.