“Nobody knew what to do,” the boy’s mother explained.

Her name was Ida Mae Rand. The man with the shotgun was her husband, Joel—he managed the motel—and her son was JJ, for Joel, Jr. She was wearing an oversized skimobile suit and about three layers on top of that, including a fur-lined hat that covered about half of her chubby, freckled face.

Mrs. Rand’s nose was running, and instinct made me back up. Couldn’t afford to get sick. She smiled—she knew why I’d backed away and didn’t blame me. Her bloodshot blue eyes were sad, as if she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, and I guess she was, once I heard her story.

“We had ninety-four patients in the hospital as of New Year’s Eve. That’s light—believe it or not, quite a few patients asked to be discharged so they could celebrate with families at home. The big show in the sky, you know? God’s fireworks. Anyhow, we lost ten in the first forty-eight hours after the power went out. All of the pumps and monitors failed, so it was difficult and sometimes impossible to medicate correctly, or keep them warm. No heat, of course. Backup generator system didn’t work. At the time we kept assuming they’d fix it, but of course they couldn’t. No one could. And so patients started dying.”

Mrs. Rand gave a deep, shuddering sigh and wiped her nose on the back of her mitten.

“Basically the hospital froze, okay? Nothing we could do. Relatives and friends started to trickle in, at least those who lived nearby, and collected their loved ones. Heaven knows how some of them got home. One had a sled, I know that, an American Flyer. Well, the weaker patients began to expire from exposure—we just couldn’t keep their body temps up. After five days the hospital was like a walk-in freezer. We had to get the remaining patients someplace warm or they would surely perish. Staff who could take them into their own homes did so. I got the last five, brought ’em to the motel, did the best we could. Three have survived, and one is feeling so good he’s been helping Joel with the heating system they jury-rigged.”

“Gravity feed, like a big kerosene camp stove,” her husband chimed in proudly. “We’ve got enough fuel oil for another month or so, so we’re praying for an early spring.”

He was no longer pointing the shotgun at me, but he wasn’t putting it away, either.

Mrs. Rand continued. “A week or so after we abandoned the facility, this gang shows up. I say gang because some of them were wearing biker colors. Must have been twenty men, well armed. Some towing big toboggans to carry what they looted. They stripped the place clean. Medical supplies, furniture, sheets and towels and blankets. They took it all, including the pharmacy. I know because I went back there looking for medication for one of my patients. Nothing. Bare shelves.”

“Told you,” her husband said. “Those boys didn’t leave so much as an aspirin. Stole everything useful and towed it back to Manchester, or wherever they came from.”

“There was nobody to stop them,” Mrs. Rand said. “We hadn’t organized ourselves yet, and most of the police had left, you know, to care for their own families as best they could. State police, local police, first responders, gone. Can’t blame them. Everybody in the same boat, worried about their loved ones freezing to death. Maybe it wasn’t so bad out in the north country, a lot of homes heat with wood pellets and such, or have backup woodstoves. But here in the city it’s a different story. Mostly oil heating systems, modern burners and thermostats. Electricity required. So nothing works.”

She sighed and shook her head, as if ashamed. “I want an early spring like everybody else. But I dread it, too, because it won’t be until the weather warms that we know how many people died of exposure. Froze to death in their own homes. More than a few, I imagine.”

“Right now we’re not thinking about it,” her husband said firmly. “Deal with today, let tomorrow take care of itself.”

But it was obvious his wife was thinking about it even if he wasn’t. And probably that’s why she dragged herself out into the frozen parking lot, to talk to a stranger in need.

“How about drugstores?” I asked.

“Sold out or looted. Shelves empty.”

“There must be something,” I said, my voice cracking.

“Might be,” Mrs. Rand said warily. “What exactly is the medication your mother requires?”

I fumbled around in my backpack and showed her an empty pill bottle. She squinted at it and nodded to herself.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” she said. “But I know a place might have a stock of that drug, or the generic equivalent.”

Then she told me where the medicine might be located.

Oh no, was my first thought, anywhere but there.