Water ran out before dawn. That single fact collapsed every other option the Smith family had left, because in a world where the grid is gone and the stores are stripped and the neighborhood has become something unrecognizable, thirst doesn't wait for a safe window. It creates one — or forces you to move without one.

The dormer across the street hasn't gone dark. Whatever watched them from the Halverson house the night before is still there, patient and quiet, and the pressure from two directions at once is what finally pushes the family out the front door. Nine blocks to the closest store. A route they've driven a hundred times. A run they've been dreading since the last jug went dry. What's waiting for them in that parking lot isn't panic and opportunism — it's something more deliberate. Organized. The kind of threat that has already figu ...