Nora huddled in the small basement under the cabin, listening for the return of the footsteps, but they did not come. There was nothing. She lit a kerosene lamp, keeping the wick small so that it wouldn’t throw too much light, and went to the shelves on the wall. Some canned food, and jars she’d put up of jelly and fruit. Small tins of evaporated milk. She took a can of hash and a jar of peaches and sat down on the bottom step to open them. Years ago, during the bomb scare, she’d dug this small shelter, working feverishly, feeling the hot breath of destruction at her back. It was only eight feet by six feet, and could be entered only through the bedroom closet floor. She’d used the dark dirt in her garden on her other property, and she’d never told anyone. The cabin was secluded and, she thought, a better place to wait out the end of the world. So she’d dug, and put up the first brick walls, with another layer of dirt between the first wall and the heavy concrete blocks she’d bought down the hill.
