Why didn’t I have the bag packed before—? I thought about it. Many times. But I couldn’t quite convince myself it was real, it was coming. I kept my head down. I did little things to make useful items more…accessible. Got the camping gear out of the basement crawl space. Planned a camping trip up north. Didn’t go camping but, the stuff’s still out in the guest room. Kitchen knives are sharpened. Picked up dry and dehydrated foods. You know. For the camping trip. I didn’t get a gun. I don’t want to shoot a gun. I wish I had a gun. I wait for dark. I try to decide: wait for silence, hope no one is near enough to hear me move, hope no one is near enough to see me go? Or wait for noise nearby to cover my own sounds, and hope I don’t attract too much attention? Hope they’re too busy killing other people to think of killing me, too? I never make a decision. When he walks through the door, it’s not quite dusk. His guard is down—he thinks this place is empty. He’s probably just hungry. He has a gun. He is looking me in the eye as I bring the lamp down on his face again, and again, and then he has no eyes but I don’t stop. I take his gun. It’s time to go.