I’ve been pacing for hours, turning the car off to save gas, then starting it again to warm the boys up once more. No one has driven by our street. I can see smoke escaping from a few chimneys, and I consider knocking on their doors, begging for help. Are they any better off than us? We’re down to seven bottles of water. We have no source of heat. As I pace, I consider finding the nearest shelter. Atlanta makes me nervous – I imagine overcrowding and squalid conditions. Would they have any beds left? Where’s the next closest shelter? Do I have enough gas to make it there? I can’t help but think of a drink as I pace. Just a sip. One sip can’t hurt. It’ll calm my nerves. It’ll help me think straight. My hands are shaking. I can’t drive with shaky hands.

“Fuck!” I scream in the middle of the garage, the sound echoing around me. The tears start, and I wipe them away in anger. I look out the square windows at the car. The boys huddle together, their faces close, conspiratorial. 

I bolt upstairs to the kitchen, grab a bottle of vodka from the freezer, run back downstairs, breathless. I look out at the boys again before taking a swig. 

I spot my ski bag at the back of the garage, raid it, and find gloves, scarves, and hand warmers. I bring the hand warmers to the boys and show them how to shake them up. 

“Don’t eat them,” I say with a firm tone, looking directly at Mikey.

He nods.

Back in the garage, I pace some more and consider the shelter again. They’ll have food and warmth at least. Anything is better than this, better than me, right now. And I take another swig. 

I run upstairs and grab my black satchel, throw in two bottles of vodka. I run to my bathroom and open the medicine cabinet, scooping up bottles of pills and dropping them into the bag. In my bedroom, I open my jewelry box. I put my wedding ring back on. I might be able to trade diamonds for food and water. A rock in exchange for wood. I dig further, grab my diamond earrings and the large emerald ring set among diamonds. My grandmother’s. For a moment, I see her standing at my dresser, hand on her hip, polished and poised. She was my favorite, and I was hers. She would know what to do right now. She wouldn’t be a trembling mess with shaking hands. 

I put the jewels in a small bag, then deposit them in a pocket within my satchel. I pull one of the bottles of vodka back out. 

“Save them,” I whisper as the cold lip of the bottle touches my lips. But by the time the scorch reaches my throat, I can’t remember whether or not I’ve said it aloud. 

—The Height of Darkness, Chapter 4