The earth died slowly, like an old campfire flame. There was no chaos, no screaming, only a stone cold silence that grew with every passing hour. A skin-deep chill that seeped into the very veins of the planet, poisoning it until crops died out, rivers iced over, people struggled to keep warm, and the air was choked with frost.

Isley pulled her scarf over her face.

Every day was another trek, a scavenge for survival. Food, warmth, and firewood became the the rhythm to which she walked, footsteps heavy against the cold, dry Sarasota streets, some of the only left without smothering ice sheets and permafrost. But the sidewalks were still choked with displaced people, almost all of them dressed in the same long parka, ragged pants, and hungry stare. Everyone wanted something from everyone else—matches, medicine, love, someone to remember their name—and no one ever had enough.

She pulled her burlap sack closer to her side, dodging back and forth, left to right, like a police car caught in a chase. Faster and faster, she worked against the crowd, pushing back toward the old parking garage she called home, glancing every few seconds at the churning sky above her. She had to get back before nightfall or she would freeze to death.

“Where are you going?” pale faces rasped, reaching for her sack. “What’s that in your hands?” Isley ignored them, but they kept grabbing at her pockets, nearly tearing the thick fabric like fickle paper. She gritted her teeth, trying to push them away, but they worked like hydra’s heads: for each one down two more popped up. Hands grasped her shoulders, elbows, arms, ankles, like ghosts trying to pry themselves out of the grave, and she fell flat toward the dirty ground. She could only watch in horror as her sack rolled open, spilling matches, bandages, dried berries and meat—all of which vanished into the crowd after a single, fleeting blink.

The day was finished, and she had failed.

Isley cursed, picking up her bag’s shallow remains. There was barely time to look for more supplies before sunset, but she was already half starving. Tomorrow would have to be a bread basket to make up for this. She sighed.

She’d figure something out. She always did.

A gentle finger brushed her shoulder and she winced. Even with nothing left to lose, people wanted things from her. And she couldn’t even blame them—she wanted their things too. In this sick city, thieves stole from thieves until all that was left was dust.

“What? Do you want my coat too?” she snapped, holding up her empty bag.

A girl about her age stared back, with big dark eyes and a slight, closed-lip smile.

“No,” she said, holding her own poorly-stitched cloth bag open. “I was going to say, take some of mine.”