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She reached up and opened the cabinet above the sink and took down three plates, turned to the two young boys seated expectantly at the dinner table. Freddie was twelve, Buddy seven. She smiled at them, placing a plate before each of them. They returned her smile. Dinner was always such a nice, quiet time, she thought.

The abrupt, staccato hammer of gunfire just outside the house startled her and she dropped her own plate. It shattered, and her hands fluttered helplessly. Do they always have to be so goddamned loud...? She forced a smile, flashed it at her two sons.

"Goodness," she sighed: "I'm getting butter-fingered..."

She leaned forward and began to scoop the shards into a neat pile. The boys exchanged looks.

"You want some help, mom?" Freddie offered.

She paused to give him her most heartfelt smile. "No, thank you, honey. I can manage." She picked up the pieces, piling them neatly in the center of her left palm, and took them to the counter. With her right hand, she pulled open the cabinet door beneath the sink and, reaching in, dumped the fragments into a wastebasket fitted with a plastic liner. She closed the cabinet door and clapped her hands together over the sink, ran water down the drain to wash away any small slivers that might remain.

She took another plate from the cabinet above the sink and went to the table and sat down across from the boys. They waited patiently for her to get comfortable. She clasped her hands together and bowed her head, closed her eyes; the boys did likewise. She said a prayer, her lips moving but her voice so low that they heard only the hiss of each "s" as she said it. Finally, satisfied that all due thanks had been given, she lifted her head and opened her eyes.

"Amen," she said. The boys echoed her, in stereo: "Amen."

She extended her left hand and Freddie handed her his plate. She dipped into the steaming pot of stew centered neatly in the middle of the floral tablecloth, and came up with a ladel full of meat and vegetables which she piled on the plate. She handed it to her son, who stared at it with eyes gone wide. He smiled at her as he took up his spoon and dug in.

"Thanks, Mom!"

She smiled as she accepted Buddy's plate. "You're welcome, son."

Buddy was just as pleased with his helping. "Yeah: thanks, Mom!"

"And you're welcome, too, son."

She sat for a moment, just watching them. She enjoyed watching them eat: it made her feel good, made her feel that she was doing something positive with her time; that she was helping them survive. So very many others hadn't survived. Many of their neighbors had turned on one another in the beginning, had made survival that much more difficult for all concerned. She'd never understood that.

Now, there weren't very many people left.

The dead- the living dead, to be precise- outnumbered the living at least ten thousand to one, and it was getting worse each day. She frowned at the thought, thrust it from her mind as she scooped out a heaping, dripping mound of stew and dropped it onto her plate. Dwelling on it was counterproductive: thinking about it only made her feel bad, and that was the one thing she couldn't afford to do- allow herself to succumb to the despair. It was always there, just under the surface, but she couldn't give in.

Not if she wanted her sons to survive.

Unlike their drunken father, they were good boys- good boys, who would one day be good men. As long as she raised them right. As long as she instilled in them good values.

She took a bite of the stew, chewed it twenty times, and swallowed it.

It was very good, indeed.

She sat in the straight-backed chair her mother had left her, knitting. The sunlight filtered betwen the boards nailed over the windows was fading; it would be dark, soon. She swallowed despite herself. The thought of nightfall still terrified her- had, ever since that night...

She shook her head. Don't dwell on it! It doesn't help to dwell on it! She smiled, sighing, and carefully placed her knitting in the basket at her feet. She listened and heard the boys, upstairs, playing hide and seek. Thankfully, Dick had agreed- after much persuasion- to buy a house big enough for the family to grow into. Too bad he hadn't lived long enough to enjoy it...

Don't go there, either, she thought.

The memory of that night- the way he'd beaten her, in a drunken rage, until she'd managed to get her hands on the gun- was enough to ruin her evening. Closing her eyes, she put her head back against the chair and tried to free her mind. She thought only of green fields, and bright sunlight. Imagined walking through a park with her sons. There was much joyful laughter in her dreamscape. It worked.

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