Glass shattered—now I have sixty seconds.
"Not today—move, move," I whisper into the fluorescent hum.
I snatch a can of peaches and a flattened tool roll from the counter. The hammer is where I left it, bald handle and head nicked like an old promise. I tuck the hammer under my hip, slide the peaches into the inside pocket, and listen.
"Count," I say out loud. "One. Two. Three."
Footsteps scrape the porch like a thumb over a bottle. Someone outside is shuffling metal and breath. The front window trembles.
"Okay," I tell the room. "Stay stupid, don't clatter."
I press my back flat against the cabinet and shove a stack of plates into the dish rack to muffle a drawer. My fingers fumble the roll like they're underwater, but the screwdriver slips into my palm.
"Good," I say. "Everything you need isn't everything you want."
The kitchen smells of dust and fried oil and something older. A loose cabinet door ticks when a breeze hits it. I clamp the tool roll under my arm and pull a small kit closer—a needle, thread, roll of surgical tape I'd traded with a woman last week for a box of batteries.
"Bandage later," I tell myself. "If we survive, bandage later."
The porch noise picks up. A slow, wet thunk. A low sigh like someone trying to remember how to breathe.
Glass from the side window explodes inward with a clean, thirsty sound. A streak
