The TV said it wasn’t safe outside anymore. We haven’t opened the door since the flash. That was months ago.
Every morning, we get a package in the chute. There’s always food in it, but sometimes we get new clothes or a book or a movie. In the afternoon, you can hear the sirens. When the sun goes down, we watch the nightly broadcast.
“ … critical breakdown in life support,” it said.
This morning, the chute was empty. Dad looked inside and hit it real hard.
“Probably just stuck,” he said.
This afternoon, I didn’t hear the sirens. That night, the TV was just fuzz.
The next morning, the chute was empty again. The door was open and Dad was gone. I’m going to peek outside.