“If subject shows sudden unexplained aggression and a craving for brains; gather an ordained priest or two sturdy men of good character. Wait, this is how to treat stigma. These pages are stuck together.”

“Nimrod, do you mean stigmata?” I asked opening a hat box.

“Potato, Patata.”

Balancing the weighty tome on one knee, Tuff licked his fingers. For twenty minutes, he’d had been reading from Grandma’s handmade survival guide that he found in the attic. I knew having something, anything to do calmed him down, so I swallowed the urge to throttle him. Grandma had been a singularity, a black hole in bedazzled jeggings who attracted stuff, hobbies, and bad marriages. Her guidebook was from her bookbinding phase, right after papermaking and before macrame. I was hunting for the old first aid kit.

“Willow, why does this survival guide taste like red popsicles in summer?”

Tuff slurped his fingers. We were in the attic because of Hurricane Imogen. You see all the hotels on high ground were filled and the emergency shelters wouldn’t allow pets. My cat, Esmeralda, was bitey, but I couldn’t leave her to the rising waters. I tried to smuggle her into Washington Middle School, our designated shelter, under my hoodie, and the cat went berserk. Hence the need for the first aid kit. The nice first aid kit was floating in Grandma’s basement with the ready-to-eat meals, and the rest of the survival gear.

Always ready to fight, Tuff started arguing with the school staff for our right to stay. I saw it was hopeless. I wrangled Tuff and Esmeralda back into my junker and headed to Grandma’s. She always told my brother and me that her’s was the safest place in an emergency. I can’t blame her for the horde. She had so little growing up; everything she acquired later was a keepsake. Her last husband didn’t see it that way and made get rid of a bunch of stuff. Grandma passed a year after they divorced. Mom said Grandma died of a broken heart. Sentimental slop, it was death by decluttering. What items hadn’t been Goodwilled had been squirreled away in the attic. Setting down the guide, Tuff sniffed for food instead pretending to look for the cure for cat scratching fever.

Tuff stepped over a hissing Esmeralda and opened a cabinet tucked under the eaves. Singing “Peanut Butter Jelly Time”Tuff began to gyrate with delight.

“Sudden onset of euphoria, a lack of coordination, sounds like a terminal case of stupidity,” I said, sitting on a box resigned.

I examined my bleeding scratches and noticed the box beneath my butt was marked Field Medic Kit. I’d found the old kit. Tuff danced my way with Grandma’s jars of preserves.