~ Day 7 ~

For any late-night viewers here online with me, you know how you get overly tired, yet do not go to sleep?

I’ve got that problem bad right now. I’d get up and do something, but I don’t want to wake Zoey by moving around. I try to count things in my head, as that usually works, but I give up.

Do you ever have that issue where when you lie down, your body doesn’t seem to sink into the bed? As if it remains floating and not settled in. I’ve got that now. Plus, my casted leg is starting to itch. I want to move my toes, but they’re confined. I want to flex my fingers, but I’m afraid to, like that’ll make me step back in my healing process and force my hand to be put in a cast.

After scrolling with my right thumb through the news on my phone, I get weary of the glare and set it back down on the glass coffee table. I stare out the bay window that holds my prize orchids. I could get out of bed and water them since it’s been about a week. But I’m too tired to move, to make the effort with my clunky cast.

The moon shines into the room, making it bright, so I adjust my blanket to cover my head. Maybe that’s why I’m so wide awake—a full moon can make people wired, can’t it? I could ask Alexa or research it online, but I lie hidden under the comforter, wanting to shut the world out.

I reflect on my husband. Denny was a good man; he genuinely loved and cared for me. I miss his embrace, his laughter, his love. I miss him. A sadness fills me. He’s no longer here; I’m the one stuck in this darkened world, with no one to love like a soul mate, a partner—no husband like Mom and Silvia have . . . no, not even a cat as Jeremy does.

Depression soaks in and finds a home. I cry, mainly out of loneliness, but also out of despondency. There’s little to be interested in, to care about now. How will I go on? How will I live? Does any of this matter? What’s there to look forward to when my world has gone wrong?

By six o’clock, I finally doze off, thrown into a dreamless state of nothingness.

When I awake around nine, it’s Zoey’s heels clicking on the stairs that alert me. “Ugh! I’m late—late again!” she complains. “I’ve got another meeting at ten that I’ll never make it to. Why do I do this? I need to rethink staying up late at night; it serves no purpose.”

I greet her and try rolling over, but my cast is too heavy to rest on my good leg.

“I get this email, apparently at seven, stating I’m needed to work on implementing another new program. This one copies China’s already established social credit system that was designed to make sure individuals and businesses comply with the country’s laws and regulations. They monitor all transactions, both financially and socially, to rate their trustworthiness, reducing availability to one’s credit and leading to fewer opportunities if they don’t conform. They want the world to accept the concept to encourage sustainable climate goals, so America is getting on board.”

“If you don’t pay your bills, are late in paying them, or are behind in alimony or child support, the bank will suspend your account. Freeze it. And give you an insufficient credit score that will affect every aspect of your life.”

She opens the fridge, grabs a piece of sliced Swiss cheese, sticks it between a folded piece of bread, and takes a bite. Yuck.

She speaks, “But what bothers me is how they’ll be able to judge you. Think about it. Let’s say you love to drink whiskey, so you buy a bottle every week at the liquor store. What if you start drinking too much, buying it every couple of days instead of weekly? Will this social system void your credit card when you go to buy a new bottle? Will the card work at a different store? And if you can’t use cash, how are you going to get the one thing you crave?”

“Uh-huh,” she says with a sigh. “It’s all about control, and you know how we both feel about that.”

When she’s at the door, we talk about her not staying at my house tonight. She tells me that she’s taken the sheets off the bed upstairs; they’re on the washing machine. I wish her a good day, almost thankful again that I have a few hours completely to myself before Jeremy arrives.

At 9:30 a.m., a text pops up on my phone reminding me I have a video appointment with my primary care doctor in half an hour—an appointment I never made, but, like the banking system, healthcare now also controls me.

Knowing I’m dressed like a slob, I quickly go to the bathroom. Since I have no way to get to my closet upstairs and Zoey didn’t bring me a clean wardrobe, I head to the utility room. When I see the pile of bedsheets on the washer, it dawns on me that I never turned the laundry over yesterday. I pull out the dampened clothes and put them in the dryer, hoping a few will be dry enough to wear during my online call.

I enter the kitchen and quickly do as Zoey does—grab a fork and forge through the last of the Thai food. I notice the forgotten lasagna in its sealed container. Thinking it’s probably had its day, I put it in the sink to discard later.

Rushing back to the dryer, I struggle to put on one of Denny’s work-logoed T-shirts and a pair of sweat shorts. The clothes are damp, but they’re not too wrinkled.

With ten more minutes left until the call, I fire up my laptop on the kitchen counter and wait. I ponder if I’ve enough time to get my mail, which has not been picked up for over a week. I glance at the scooter and make my move; I pick up the keys on the table by the door and roll down the sidewalk to the end of our block of condos, where the mailboxes are located.

“Hola,” I say to the Hispanic woman at the collection of boxes. I’ve seen this lady before; she lives on the opposite side of our unit, and we’ve occasionally talked with each other, always using the Spanish greeting.

“Yes, I fell down my stairs. I’m healing better than I thought. What about you? What happened, if I may ask?”

“When the missings happened, I gashed my arm,” she explains. “My grandchild disappeared while in her highchair. I tried to pull open the table part, and the metal bracket cut into my thin skin. My husband bandaged me up; hopefully, it won’t get infected.”

There’s nothing in it. I notice there’s nothing in hers, either. Yet taped to the metal containers are more than a dozen flyers. Mostly children with their names and pictures plastered on them. The plea to immediately call if you see them breaks my heart. Three other posters state, “Warning: the Rapture has happened.”

“Si.” She must have noticed my pause seeing the flyers. “Yes, so sad. I feel horrible for my friend’s daughter. She couldn’t find her two children. They were on the playground. She’s still convinced someone took them.”

No, not those girls—the ones I watched on that horrid day. Swinging and enjoying life, and then they were gone. I don’t respond. I can’t.

Another flyer flaps in the breeze. A boy: eight years old. Blonde hair. Blue eyes.

After a minute of dead air, I ask, “Have you seen the mail carrier? Or do you know if maybe our boxes got hit again?”

“No, haven’t seen them. I heard they stopped delivering because it’s dangerous right now. Maybe next week they can deliver two or three days.”

I reply, “Oh. Isn’t their motto, ‘Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night?’ Guess a worldwide tragedy doesn’t apply here.”

We say our goodbyes, with me telling her I have an appointment in a few minutes.

When I return to the condo, there are two minutes to spare. I move my body and the laptop over to the couch, put my leg up on a pillow, and let out a cleansing breath from all my rushing.

Clicking on the Open button online, I’m surprised to not see my regular doctor. Instead, it’s Amir!

After greeting one another, he says, “Sorry, your primary hasn’t been on staff for a few weeks. He and his wife went to India to visit her family with their children, and he was expected back at work yesterday, but no one’s heard from him. So, you’ve got me.”

I give him a big smile. “Ah, but it’s nice to see you. I hear Zoey and you are going out again—tomorrow night, right?”

“Yes, that’s the plan if I don’t get called in. I asked for the evening off and told them not to put me on call, either.” What a sweetheart; he cares about her.

“So, what about you? How do the foot and leg feel? Any issues we need to discuss?”

“So far, so good,” I tell him. “My leg is starting to itch, and I don’t like the feeling that my toes are restricted. And my hand is acceptable. It tingles a lot. Is it okay to move my fingers?”

“The itching is normal, and so is the feeling—or lack of it—in the toes. Your hand may be healing, so I’d recommend being cautious about moving the appendages as little as necessary for another week or two.”

“Actually, no. The last two nights, I’ve been restless. I want to get up and move around, but it’s too much work.”

“I could order you a script for Zolpidem, which is Ambien, or you could try over-the-counter Melatonin.”

“I’ll pass on the prescription. I may have the herbal supplement; I’ll try that instead.”

I feel a bit off sharing things about my personal life with this new flame of Zoey’s, but I know the value of mental health, so I say, “I’ve been forgetful, which is not me. I think I’m depressed. I’ve suffered it before and worked it out in therapy, but this feels different—almost a forlorn feeling of hopelessness.”

I briefly explain the shooting of the governor’s son with the boy dying in my lap, saving James during the plane crash, losing my baby I had just learned about, and then my husband disappearing.

“My. You need something to center you from the teeter-tottering of volatile emotions.”

“I confess—I took one of my husband’s Ativan when I learned he disappeared. I’m not sure the drug did anything, but I didn’t have an allergic reaction to it.”

“That’s an anti-anxiety med; I want to prescribe Sertraline, also known as Zoloft, and see how that works for you—it’s for depression and normally takes a couple of weeks to kick in.”

“No, not at all. Patients tell me they feel less of the high highs and low lows, so it helps them manage the day-to-day things. I’ll start you on a mild dose, and we’ll see how it works, okay?”

“Sure, as long as it doesn’t alter my personality.” I smirk at him on the screen. “I don’t want to be dull. I aim to be like Zoey.”

He laughs, and we finish our conversation, with him giving me an open-ended prescription to fill whenever I’m ready and me wishing him good luck on the date tomorrow night. I give my condolences about his mother dying, and he tells me his three brothers in Israel are helping his father and sisters deal with the loss.

He also tells me that, unfortunately, his youngest brother in the IDF (Israeli Defense Forces) was recently injured in the war and is recuperating at his dad’s house. Since his mother is no longer alive, his father is playing nursemaid, which might be the best thing right now to keep him occupied.

I like Amir. He’s bright and funny, and he seems to be compassionate and considerate of others. Although I see a tinge of reservation in his demeanor—almost a cautiousness—I approve of his relationship with my best friend.

After the appointment ends, I finish folding the now-dry laundry and move Zoey’s sheets to the dryer. I clean up the kitchen, putting everything back my way instead of my guests’ haphazard methods. I dump the left-over lasagna in the trash compactor, rinse the container, and stick it in the dishwasher. Finally, I add water to the flowers on the kitchen sill and dining room table and hand-water my orchids in the great room.

I pass the lemon tree in a large clay pot situated between our two light blue doors angled ninety-degrees from each other. With a couple of green lemons growing on the plant, it seems to continuously emit a fresh smell, but it needs to be watered.

When I knock on Adam’s door and he answers, he’s wearing a dirty T-shirt and boxers, appearing as if he woke up recently; his eyes are red and glassy. He offers a disoriented hello.

“Sorry to bother you, Adam, but I have another favor to ask you. You were so helpful last time—a godsend. So, I hate to ask again, but I think you’re the only one who can help me.” I try not to sound like I’m pampering his ego.

“Sure, neighbor. And don’t you look spiffy with that cast get-up and arm wrap? Do you hurt much? Need some drugs or something?”

A red flag pops up in my head when he says it. I know he’s a pharmacy tech with a lot of knowledge about medications, but it’s the way he says it—like he has the drugs or something.

“No, well, sorta. I need a prescription filled, and I can’t drive to pick it up. I guess I could ask Jeremy, but I prefer not to.”

He must’ve read between the lines on my wording. “Your secret’s safe with me. You put the Rx in at the Walgreens on Nordhoff Street and pay for it online, then when I go into work today, I’ll process it and bring it to you.”

“Not at all, I have to be there from noon to nine today, so you’re not putting me out at all. There’s such chaos out there at the stores that are still open; you don’t want to deal with it. I’ll take care of you.”

“Yeah,” he adds, “yesterday at work, UPS was making a delivery to the store, and the driver got accosted by a couple of thugs who took a bunch of his packages. We tried to patch the guy up, ya know, putting antiseptic and dressing on his wounds. Anyway, he said Amazon now has two people in each of their trucks, and one is armed! That’s crazy. He said they still make shipping products their priority, but they may no longer get your order there the next day—possibly a day or two later, to keep their staff safe during the crisis. I can’t believe the rise in crime. I pack heat now wherever I go.”

He rubs his eyes, saying, “Oh, and I’ve been staying overtime to keep up on the scripts, so I may not be home until ten or eleven to drop your prescription off. Is that okay? Is it something you need to start taking immediately?”

“No, it’s not that important.” I know he’ll be able to see it’s for depression. “Why don’t you drop it off tomorrow morning, please.”

With more small talk, I mention that I should water the lemon tree and my potted abracadabra rose bush by my gated patio. He tells me to wait while he leaves for a few seconds. When he returns, carrying a large, filled pitcher, he waters both plants.

With nothing else to chat about, I thank him for his graciousness and limp back to my home, thankful I’ve got such an odd but helpful neighbor who waters plants.

Inside my den of safety, I go online and order the meds, paying for it on my credit card, while wondering if Big Brother is also tracking my mental health.

With a half hour left until Jeremy comes over, the doorbell rings again (yes, I instantly rule out Zoey and Jeremy, the door knockers).

Unexpectedly, it’s Adam, now dressed in khaki pants, a polo shirt, and a light blue lab coat. Gone are the glassy red eyes.

It’s obvious he’s got something in the palm of his hand, but it’s hidden from my view, as his arm is turned downward.

As he stands at my doorstep, he informs me he’s on his way to work; he wants to run an errand and then start early since they’re short-staffed.

Oddly, he’s whispering, looking down the walkway, as if to see if anyone is coming. He asks me outright if he can come in for a second. Confused about his demeanor, I comply but wonder why.

“Mm-hmm. The world’s turned upside down,” I silently question where this conversation is going.

“It’s a single stack Glock G43. It’s my dad’s—or was. I’ve got an identical one. So here, it’s yours.”

“I figured that, but you need to be safe, and this’ll protect you. It’s small, lightweight, simple, yet effective.”

“See how small it is? It’s easy to carry in your purse or stash in your car. Just point and shoot.”

“I anticipated you not wanting it, but you must be prepared—we all must be.” He turns and opens the small drawer in the wall table and sticks the firearm inside, closing the compartment’s door afterward. With a look of satisfaction, his eyes crinkle at the corners. “That settles that one. See, it wasn’t that bad. Now grab it when you need it—if you need it.”

I stumble over my words, surprised I agree to have a gun in my house. “O-okay, but I hope I never have to use it.”

“Of course, but I feel better knowing two people—not just one—are now protected in this complex.”

“And here’s the other thing.” He puts a joint—yes, marijuana—on the table.

I’m more than mystified. Not at the joint, but that he plopped it down without care or concern. Or my approval.

“If you’re ordering meds for something—I’m not judging you, but this may stop you from feeling over-anxious and edgy. It’s been helping me more than I expected. And I have more if needed, of course.”

All righty. This guy’s got a different side to him than I expected. Maybe the loss of his dad put him over the top.

He says, “I would rather be a hero than a villain, so if it’s survival of the fittest, I aim to help my neighbor.”

Then he abruptly declares he’s off to work, while I visualize him in a seedy back alley, trying to score some pot from shady men in oversized dark leather coats and carrying small black guns.

When he leaves, I force myself to ignore the elephant in the drawer that I want to forget. I shut the table’s drawer more tightly and hide the joint behind Denny’s wallet and phone that I haven’t touched since last week.

I spend the next half hour on my computer doing quick, easy tasks, such as cleaning up my emails. I go to missings.org and file what I can on Aunt Amy and then check my online banking. There’s a large balance in checking—which it shouldn’t have if all the banks are still closed. Snickering to myself, I wonder if I’ll need to contact an accountant come tax season.

I voice-text Daddy, Mom, and Silvia in our online group, giving them an update on my doctor’s appointment, but I don’t mention my prescription or the questionable drug. I ask if any of them have received any mail or Amazon boxes and get negative replies.

Also, I go on Facebook to check if Hal has responded; he has not, so I send another message about Amy’s disappearance. I question mentioning the Bible verses she was reading, knowing they would stir up a hornet’s nest.

While on hold as Brittany contacts our boss, I let my co-worker in my house. He appears more contented, maybe from taking care of the cat.

“Hi, Boss! Jeremy and I are here on speaker. We wanted to touch base to see if anything’s going on.”

“Yeah, it’s a learning curve, but we’re dealing with it.” I try to convince myself.

After Carl checks on my health and well-being, he says, “Have either of you been to the stores lately? I hear there’s been a run on those with food. Helen left her cart in the parking lot, without even going inside. I want an article about it. Are either one of you up for it yet? I know you, Jeremy, are off work still for a few more days, but . . .”

Jeremy interrupts him. “Got you covered on that one already, Boss. I had to go to Petco before I came over to Sarah’s. What a mess. The store still has some stock, like cat toys and generic dry and wet food, but all the high-end items are gone. I’m unsure if they were sold out, stolen, or even kept in the back somewhere. Only out of curiosity, I took a couple of still shots of the empty shelves. I’ll be glad to send those over; maybe you can use them.”

“Great. Thanks, Jeremy. Good job for thinking about the news wherever you go, whatever you do.”

“That’s not all. You’ll want to hear this.” Is he teasing us with the story? He does this sometimes, and it drives me crazy.

“Okay, okay. I walked to Vons Supermarket next door and stopped by a trash can, checking my phone for texts. In the parking lot, there were three males—guessing in their late teens to twenties—on mopeds or e-bikes. They also had AK-47s strapped to their backs, same as that gang we saw under the overpass, Sarah.”

Jeremy continues, “Right. Well, these guys were just as intimidating. I pulled out my phone and started a video. I safely stood by a pillar, a little out of their view, and kept my camera down by my waist. Next, there were two similarly dressed guys on their bikes coming out of Vons. Yup, riding them out of the store! Full bags were strapped around their arms as they raced out of the automatic doors. All five bikers took off down San Fernando Mission Boulevard, screaming and laughing.”

Carl is silent for a few seconds. Then he adds, “‘There is a way which seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death.’”

“Yes, I had to look it up online. My mother used to quote this verse; I didn’t realize it came from Proverbs 14:12 in the Bible.”

Of course, I cringe at Scripture being referenced, but Jeremy draws me back into the conversation by saying, “After the incident, I went inside the store and taped a few of the customers’ responses. They all seem scared and concerned. Yes, a lot of shelves are empty. People are panicking by stocking up on anything they can get their hands on, afraid the food chain has been suddenly disrupted. One couple was in tears—you’ll see it in the video. The husband has celiac disease, so they’ve got to be extra careful, finding only gluten-free food, which is getting harder to procure.”

“How sad.” I sense this is getting increasingly out of control. Mainly because people aren’t working together to help the greater good.

Viewer, what do you think? Are you experiencing these shortages? Have you had to deal with any?

“Yes,” interjects Carl. “Helen said she’s heard the same thing, about there being no food.” He adds, “Great job, again, Jeremy. But I must go, so I’ll pick and choose from those pics and videos if you send them to me. Knowing your disdain for writing, can you have Sarah assemble some bullets for me?”

“Oh,” says Jeremy, “sorry, I had to use my smartphone camera during it all; it may be grainy, but it’s better than nothing.”

“No worries, and thanks. Get to work and let me know when you two want more of it. And Jeremy?”

Jeremy explains, and Carl chuckles; he can’t believe the guy has a pet, either.

When we hang up, I go to my still-opened laptop and type in the information Jeremy gives me. I send the data to Jeremy’s email, and within minutes, we fulfill our mini-project.

Since we both haven’t eaten lunch, Jeremy walks into the kitchen, opens the cupboard, and pulls out a can of tuna.

As he puts together another amazing edible mixture, we talk about food shortages, shipments, and how Amazon is determined to deliver its goods by being armed. Since food is the current topic of the hour, we decide we should go over to Aunt Amy’s house and rummage for it, bringing back whatever staples we can find to keep a good stock here.

Ten minutes later, we’re driving over to Amy’s duplex. Sepulveda Boulevard is emptier than our last drive. With no school, only a few businesses open, and not many commuting to work, it reminds us of COVID days when everything shut down. Although it’s eerily quiet, it’s almost a relief not to see people.

After I give Jeremy Denny’s keys to move Amy’s Toyota Camry, he unlocks the car with the fob; we both notice its gas panel’s lid is open. We think someone could have stolen her gas. Shaking his head in disbelief at the desperation of thieves, he moves her car to the street and backs his Suburban into her driveway.

When he goes to unlock the nearby kitchen back door, we both notice it is ajar. It looks like someone has taken a tool or something to the lock and door jamb.

I give my friend a “should we go inside?” look, and he nods in the affirmative, intertwining the keys in between his fingers so they stick out. It’s a pathetic weapon, but, at least, it’s something.

I didn’t bring my scooter on this trip—I had completely forgotten it. So, my good hand stays in touch with Jeremy’s back as I drag my casted foot along the cement. I’m getting used to walking without a wobble, even though it’s uncomfortable with its plastic heel insert forcing my hip upward.

When we enter the home, silence abounds. There’s no movement. Some of the kitchen cabinets are open.

Jeremy picks out a Santoku knife from the kitchen counter’s butcher’s block. Letting go of Jeremy, I select a cleaver, noting there’s no pointed end to stab someone with.

We slowly, quietly tiptoe into the living room. I make sure not to thump the cast on the wood flooring.

Without entering, we see the first bedroom has its nightstand open with its contents spilled on the floor. A closet is open with some clothes discarded.

We stop by the single bath. Jeremy points his knife at the closed plastic shower curtain. He rapidly pulls it back as he wields his knife in the air, prepared for the attack. I stand, ready as I can be with a broken foot and wrist.

Only two bedrooms left to check. The tension in me ramps up. I stumble when my cast—the outer left ankle side—whacks into the hall wall, making a cracking sound.

Jeremy growls and rushes to the end of the hall where the two bedrooms intersect at a T. He glances back and forth quickly, and then he gives me a thumbs up that all’s clear.

Amy’s bedroom has no bedspread on the bed. Her jewelry box is empty; her bureau drawers’ contents have been dumped.

The other room, which holds a sleeper sofa, coffee table, small rolltop desk, and chair, appears messier: several desk drawers on the floor, the closet open with papers strewn about, and books removed from their bookcase and tossed on the carpet.

I enter the room and notice in the closet that there are stacks of books—maybe a hundred in neat rows, except for one row that has been disturbed and spilled into the room. All black leather-bound Bibles. Bibles! Grr.

There’s a small business envelope resting on top of one of the uniform stacks. On its front is my first name—yes, Sarah. I drop the cleaver and pick up the note.

No, not now. I refuse to read this now. I know what it’s going to say. I should throw it away or burn it, but I stuff it in the side pocket of my shorts.

“Find anything?” asks Jeremy. “Looks like this room got hit the hardest. Can you tell if anything’s gone?”

I point to the stack of Bibles, tossing him one that he catches. “There’s a ton of these. Want one? Like they’re worth anything.”

He puts the book on the coffee table, ignoring my comment. “I think whoever it was did a grab and go—they entered, searched for electronics and jewelry, wrapped them up in her bedspread, and split, off to another victim’s house.”

With no bad guys in the house, we retrace our steps back to the kitchen, where I mention the carport has a storage unit behind it; I tell him to use the key on the keychain to see inside the outbuilding.

Meanwhile, I open all the cupboards and pull out everything edible that has a decent shelf life, organizing it on the dining room table.

When I haven’t heard from Jeremy for a while, I duck my head out the back door. He tells me he found a treasure trove of MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) and canned goods in sealed plastic containers, dry goods in burlap sacks, toilet paper rolls, and a myriad of untouched but highly organized supplies.

I wince, realizing Aunt Amy was a prepper who was prepared for a catastrophe like this, something Denny and I never thought about.

After four hours of purging the house, we head back to my condo with the Suburban fully loaded.

We decide to put his SUV in my garage overnight but remove all perishable items by storing them in the extra refrigerator/freezer in the garage. The last thing we want is our precious cargo to be stolen. We also agree that he takes my car to his apartment for the night, and hopefully, thieves won’t hit it again.

Right when we turn onto the side road to my building, both our phones ding simultaneously. I pull mine out; there’s an emergency update that an atmospheric river is approaching in the next four to six hours that will contain high winds and an abundance of rain.

Aha. Here we go again! Southern California is known for its earthquakes, Santa Ana high winds that often cause fires, and triple-digit temperatures, but, seriously, more rain? Sigh. Double sigh.

By the time Jeremey switches the cars around and makes us fajitas, using the untouched steak from Zoey and Amy’s fresh vegetables and tortillas, it’s after six o’clock, and we are exhausted.

When the kitchen is put back in order, Jeremy collects my car keys and bids me goodbye, mentioning Eyes has been alone most of the day and he doesn’t want the cat to be afraid during the storm.

Although fatigued from all the physical work, I’m happy we accomplished so much. By seven, I take my smelly, dirty clothes off and put them in the washing machine, remove Amy’s note from my pocket, and place it on the half-moon table, still not interested in knowing what it says.

After wiping my body down with a wet washcloth, I’m back in my pajama shirt with my face clean and my teeth brushed, wanting to veg out and watch the news or an old movie, hopefully dozing off at the same time.

Adjusting the now-clean white couch throw on my body, I try putting my cast on the sofa under a stack of pillows instead of on the glass table. It’s a challenge to get comfy; I try several positions using pillows holding up my arm and under my head.

I turn the television on to a channel that specializes in global news. The newscaster speaks:

Klaus Schwab of the WEF is continuing his plans for ‘humanocracy,’ which is the fusion between our physical, digital, and biological dimensions. Our new ‘Intelligent Age’ will be driven by the Fourth Industrial Revolution, where humankind will enjoy many more opportunities and possibilities due to technology. We hope to see a new dawn of human civilization—one that harmonizes technology with the needs and aspirations of humanity and where artificial intelligence, robotics, the Internet of Things, 3D-printing, genetic engineering, and quantum computing become the foundations of daily life, yet are guided by respect for human values, creativity, and the natural world.

After asking Alexa to lock the door and turn off the lights, I consider the broadcaster’s words. What he said was a mouthful, wasn’t it? But the idea of a new world where everything clicks and works together with the help of technology would be ideal. It’s like we are getting a second chance to restart the world and make it better this time.

Looking out the bay window, I see water running down the glass. The rain has arrived, and it’s getting nasty outside.

A text pops up on my phone. It’s Zoey: Storm has hit. Staying onsite at the Bunker Hill office to shelter in place. Will sleep in tenants’ suites. Don’t like Downtown LA, especially this high-rise. Safer than hydroplaning on the 101 or driving my Audi through flooded streets.

Now that I’ve mastered the voice-texting option, it’s easier to converse, so we message back and forth for a half hour.

Zoey tells me Amir wants to take her out tomorrow to a nice restaurant, but none of them are answering their phones, so they’re considering other options.

I tell her about my doctor's appointment (not mentioning Zoloft) and our conversation about his family.

She writes that Amir’s older brother walked off his job as an officer in the IDF, saying something about how he wants to be something like an Israeli missionary. Amir is upset as he knows their father is not happy about it, and neither is his injured brother, who had his leg blown off kicking an IED away from some Palestinian kids in the Gaza Strip. Yeah, war and its repercussions are a nightmare.

Without Daddy being on the line, Mom tells me that the neighbors in the eight homes in their cul-de-sac are banded together and have blocked their street entrance with their SUVs to deter other vehicles from entering. One of the men wants to set up around-the-clock guards to secure the area, yet she doesn’t think there are enough of them to do it, and my father is against the idea.

I tell her what we gleaned from Amy’s house, and she agrees it’s a good idea to stock up. Since Daddy has always been a collector, she believes they have plenty of goods in the basement that should last weeks, if not months.

I hang up the phone, hoping this all is temporary. I’m frustrated due to all the negative news, so I get up and go to the bathroom.

Am I going to be okay? It seems like the world’s falling apart around me. I don’t like it.

Understandable. Hang in there. It won’t last forever. Things will go to a normal state soon. You must be patient.

But I don’t like it. I feel lost. And my body being broken doesn’t help. I can’t do anything. I can’t sleep. I can’t get comfortable. I’m not me like this. I’m overwhelmed with everything that needs to be done, yet I don’t know how to do any of it. And there are crazies everywhere. I don’t know how much more I can take.

But am I safe here? In my own home? It’s been a week since the world shifted with the missings, and look at all the disarray that’s occurred so far. How much more can we take?

We’re here for you; we’ll always protect you. You know that. And now you have protection, thanks to Adam.

Never say never, Sarah. You don’t know the future. You don’t know what you’re truly capable of. You’re only going through a rough spot. The anti-depressant will help center you and bring back the real you. All will be fine—you need to believe that. You need to believe how strong and determined you can be.

I’ve got such a foreboding feeling. I feel lost. Alone. Will I be able to survive this? Will I be able to handle it all and take care of myself?

Yes. You’ll be fine. You are fine. And you have plenty of money to stay safe and alive. You have Numen; we’ll be on your side as long as we work together as one entity.

Thanks for the encouragement. Maybe tomorrow I’ll feel better once I start those meds. Yes, tomorrow’s a new day.

After my escalating viewer ratings are praised, we say good night, and I climb into bed, hoping things will start to improve.

Sleep continues to evade me, mainly because of the lightning and thunder that accompany the torrential downpour and swirling winds buffeting the nearby window.