“In Massachusetts?” The idea wasn’t just ridiculous. It was the most batshit crazy thing Chloe had ever heard.
“Maybe we wouldn’t have to go that far,” Dad said. “We just need to get someplace where the power’s on and our credit cards work. Then we can get a hotel room, and—”
“Dad! We’re not going anywhere!”
“Sweetheart, we have to. We’re running out of food here!” Apparently, he was serious. Which was insane.
“There’s food in the freezer! And I have semis today!”
“You really think they’re happening?”
“Yes! Coach Kaniewski said—”
“Then we can stop by the courts before we leave and see if—”
“No! Ohmygod, no!”
“Quit yelling!” Max whined. “Jesus!”
“Chloe—”
“Dad! I have semis! And test prep!” And Josh! “And my Dartmouth app! And homework!” And Josh! “And last night, you told me everything was fine!”
“I know, honey. I’m just kinda . . . reevaluating that.”
“So, what? We’re going to, like, go hide in a bunker like the Blackwells?”
“What about the Blackwells?”
“Their dad’s, like, a crazy survivalist. Yesterday, he made them all ride their bikes to their, like, compound in Pennsylvania.”
“How do you know this?” Dad asked.
“I saw them leave! I was . . .” No point in getting too specific. “Walking to tennis practice, and they rode by me on their bikes. All five of them. With their dog. And backpacks and stuff.”
“How do you know where they were going?”
“They’ve got a place in Pennsylvania somewhere. On a lake or something. Where else would they have gone?”
“Do you know how to get there?”
“Dad! We’re not going to go pound on the door of the Blackwells’ survival bunker! We’re not even friends with them!”
He looked a little offended. “I’m friends with their dad.”
“Dude! Their dad hangs out with, like, billionaires and rock stars!”
“What rock stars?”
“Like that guy with one name who does charity stuff in Africa.”
“Bono?”
“I guess?”
“Pete Blackwell’s friends with Bono?”
“And he’s totally paranoid! And if we show up at their compound, he’ll probably just shoot us! Because we’re not rock stars! And they’re not our friends!”
“Seriously, though: do you know where their place is? Like, even the town?”
“No! And even if I did, we’re not going there! Because I have semis today!”
“This is so totally fucked up,” Max declared as he walked out of the room with the box of Cheerios.
Chloe stared at her father, who shut his eyes and sighed heavily. Then he turned away from her, back to the stove. The water was boiling. He took the lid off the pot, picked up a slotted spoon, and started to lower eggs into the pot from a tray on the counter.
She went to the fridge and searched it for something to drink. Finding nothing except alcoholic beverages—great job, Mom! nice life—she selected an apple, then sat down at the kitchen table to eat it as she watched her father stare at the boiling pot of eggs.
He looked so worried that Chloe’s own level of concern started to rise dramatically.
“Should I be freaking out? Like, are we not going to be able to eat?”
He shook his head. “No. Don’t worry. I’m going to do the worrying for us. Okay? You just . . . focus on the tennis and your college stuff. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Dad looked back at the eggs.
“Do you have a watch?” he asked.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Dad, I have literally never owned a watch in my life.”
He sighed. “Crap.”
“What?”
“How am I going to know when the eggs are done?” He hobbled out of the room like he could barely walk. A moment later, Chloe heard him clomping up the stairs.
Sitting alone in the empty kitchen, she watched the blue flame lick the bottom of the pot across the room as she tried to decide how worried she should be.
What the hell is going on, anyway?
Dad had left a notebook open on the table next to her seat. She reached out, pressed her fingers to the page, and slid it close enough to read the single figure he’d written on it:
$36.75
What did that mean?