Eve doesn’t seem inclined to make a move. I don’t mean physically—I’m getting used to having them live with me and don’t really want her and Mason and the kids to move out. But Eve seems so broken, and I’d like to witness something of her old enthusiasm. I’d like to know it’s still in there somewhere. Being with Eve makes me realize that comparatively speaking, I’ve actually adjusted pretty well to post-apocalyptic living. If there was a standardized test measuring the adjustment of all Americans, I bet I’d be in the ninety-seventh percentile.
Me and Dr. Cohen—he’d be right up there, too. He’s an elegant survivor if ever there was one. I miss sleeping with him. But I’m afraid it would give Eve and Mason’s daughters the wrong impression if I brought him around. I am their step-grandmother, after all.
Jill Riddell is a writer in Chicago. She teaches at the School of the Art Institute and has a weakness for nature, magic, and pennies abandoned in sidewalk cracks.