In the late afternoon, Eddie and Laura stood in their doorway and watched a group of their neighbors set off from across the street. They were outfitted as if for an expedition, with packs and visors and hiking shoes. An hour later, another group gathered, but this one was smaller, only three. Eddie thought he recognized the man with the beard who’d organized the evacuation.

“How many signed up?” he called from the doorway. Two of the evacuees were bent over, pressing clothes into unzipped packs; the organizer was doing some final stretches. He whipped his head around, trying to place the origin of Eddie’s voice. He held his hand up to shade his eyes.

“Are you coming?” he called. “Is that what you’re asking me?”

“No,” Eddie said. He laughed one short, derisive laugh. “I think we’re going to stay right here.”

“There are more groups leaving later. If you want to join them, of course, you can. They’re prepared to pick up others from the neighborhood. They think it’s best to travel at night. I disagreed, but they insisted. There are pros and cons.”

“Well, break a leg, then,” Eddie said.

“Ha!” he exclaimed. “A dramaturge.”

They looked like a sorry lot, walking down the street turtled beneath their bulbous packs, their naked calves flexing with the weight. The packs were ill-fitting and rattled at each step, making them look like a derelict Boy Scout troop.

When they were gone, the street was silent. The neighborhood looked cleared out and deserted.

In the evening, Eddie took the mattress from where it leaned against the basement wall and laid it on a section of the floor that was bare cement. It was maybe a degree or two cooler there. Lying down, he could almost feel a current of air flow just above the floor.

“You’re okay with this?” he said to Laura.

“With what?”

“Staying.”

“Well, I don’t want to go with them.”

“But you do want to go?”

“What do you think?” she said.

“I don’t want to overreact accidentally.”

“But what’s a reaction and what’s an overreaction? We won’t be able to tell until this is over.”

“At least we know who we can trust here. When this is over, I want to be around people who know our reputation.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean,” he explained, “we can all vouch for each other. People here know us.”

“Who?” she said. “Who are you talking about besides the Davises?”

“Whoever,” he said. “All of our neighbors.”

“Our neighbors are the ones who’re leaving.”

“Not all of them,” Eddie said, but he felt it, too. The weight of being left behind.