The faucet stood silent. "Noooooooo!" "I don't think we should count on that coming back any time soon." Mia sunk to her knees, laughing ruefully. "Well, it was fun while it lasted." "There's fog here like every day. Look how green it is compared to Redondo." "Do we have tarps? Buckets?" They found several of both in a shed bracketed by lemon trees in the back of the yard. They tied the tarps to the bottom of the deck, funneling the lower ends to waiting buckets. That night, stirred by the silence, Raymond wandered the house, candle in hand, and found a radio. They sat in the couch in near darkness and twiddled the dial. Static ruled the FM side from start to finish. On the AM, a garbled voice quoted scripture. A few ticks on, a sleepy-sounding kid DJed sets of electronic music. Mia got up and swung her arms in the Monkey. After sitting through a set, Raymond dialed on. A springy man's voice rose from the static. "...steer clear, it's Bakersfield, where armed gangs are reported to be enslaving other survivors and putting them to work on the farms.
