You dug a room under the ground. A real one, with a door that spins shut like a submarine. I always wanted a hideout. But this is better than the blanket fort ever was, and you never let me tape the couch cushions together.
Look at all the cans. Rows and rows, stacked like the pantry belongs to a giant. You know what's in every single one without reading it. When did you get so good at counting supplies? I used to run out of graham crackers by Tuesday.
There's a flashlight that cranks. A radio that cranks. Water in blue jugs. You thought about everything. You always said when you grew up you'd be ready for anything, and here it is, the readiest room in the world.
But you keep coming down here alone. You sit on the little cot and check the door again, and again, like the spinning wheel might have forgotten how to spin. Who are you hiding from? The dark? We used to be scared of the dark together, and then you got brave. I thought you stayed brave.
Here's what I don't get. You built a whole safe place for the end of the world. When are you going to build one for the regular days?
Can we go back upstairs now?
I think there's still sun out.