For sentiment, she selected her favorite photo of her and Max. He stood behind her, his arms around her. Her hands crossed over his. He wore black jeans and a blue shirt rolled to his elbows, and she a floaty summer dress—with the lush green of Central Park around them.

She packed it, frame and all, between the towels. And slipped in a copy of his first published novel, The Wizard King.

For hope, she went into his office, took his flash drive where he backed up his work in progress. One day, when sanity came back to the world, he’d want it.

She set out the two flashlights kept in the skinny kitchen closet, the spare batteries. She gathered bread she’d made only the day before, a bag of pasta, another of rice, bags of herbs she’d dried, coffee, tea. She used a small soft-sided cooler for the few perishables, some frozen chicken breasts.

They wouldn’t starve—for a while at least.

She unrolled her knives, the gorgeous Japanese blades she’d saved up for—months of scrimping, but so worth it.

She probably shouldn’t take them all, but she admitted leaving any behind would break her heart more than abandoning her wardrobe. Besides, they were tools.

She rolled them up again, set them aside. Her tools, she thought, so she’d carry them in her backpack. Her tools, her weight.

However foolish it was, she went in, neatly made the bed, arranged the throw pillows.

She dressed—warm clothes, thick socks, sturdy boots.

When she heard Max’s knock—seven times, three-three-one—she all but flew to the door, yanking at the locks. Then flung herself into his arms.

“I wouldn’t let myself worry while you were gone.” She pulled him inside. “So it all crested and ebbed the second I heard your knock.”

Tears swam into her eyes, shimmered—and she burst into laughter when he held out a burgundy backpack with candy-pink trim.

He grinned back at her. “You like pink. They had one in stock.”

“Max.” Blinking away the tears, she took it. “Wow. Already heavy.”

“I loaded them both up—yours and my manly camo.”

Though he didn’t tell her his held a 9mm and extra clips he’d found in a looted storeroom.

“I got each of us a multi-tool and a kit for filtering water, some bungee cords.” He took off his hat, shoved his fingers through his hair. “We’re New Yorkers, Lana. Urbanites. We’re going to be strangers in a strange land out there.”

“We’ll be together.”

“I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“Good. I won’t let anyone hurt you, either.”

“Let’s pack up the rest. We might have to hike awhile before we find something drivable. I want to be out of New York before dark.”

As they added to the backpacks, he eyed her knife roll.

“All of them?”

“I didn’t take a single pair of Manolos. That stings, Max. It stings.”

He considered it, then chose a bottle of wine from the rack, slipped it into his pack. “Seems fair.”

“It does. You have a knife on your belt. That’s a knife sheath, isn’t it?”

“It’s a tool. And a precaution,” he added when she said nothing. After a moment, he unzipped the front pocket of the pack, took out the gun and holster.

Shocked, sincerely, to see a gun in his hand, she stepped back. “Oh, Max. Not a gun. We’ve both always felt the same way about guns.”

“A strange land, Lana. A dangerous one.” He clipped it on his belt. “You haven’t been out in nearly two weeks.” He took her hand, squeezed it. “Trust me, it’s necessary.”

“I do trust you. I want to get out, Max, get somewhere guns aren’t necessary, and knives aren’t a precaution. Let’s go. Let’s just go.”

She started to put on the cashmere coat—blue as her eyes—he’d given her for Christmas, but at his head shake, switched to her parka. At least he didn’t quibble about the cashmere scarf she wrapped around her neck.

He helped her shoulder her backpack. “Can you handle it?”

She made a fist, bent her arm at the elbow. “I’m an urbanite who uses the gym. Or used to.”

With it, she picked up her purse, put it on cross-body.

“Lana, you don’t need—”

“I’m leaving my food processor, my Dutch oven, my worn exactly once Louboutin over-the-knee boots, but I’m not leaving without my purse.” Rolling her shoulders to adjust the pack, she gave him a steady, challenging stare. “Doom or no Doom, there are lines, Max. There are lines.”

“Were those the boots you walked into my office wearing—with one of my shirts?”

“Right. That makes worn twice.”

“I’ll miss them as much as you.”

It was good, she thought, good they’d made each other smile before they left their home.

He hefted the bag she’d packed. Opened the door.

“We keep moving,” he told her. “Just keep moving north until we find a truck or an SUV.”

As her smile dropped away, she only nodded.

They moved toward the stairway at the end of the common hall. The door of the last unit opened a crack.

“Don’t go out there.”

“Keep moving,” Max ordered when Lana stopped.

The door opened a little wider. Through the opening, Lana saw the woman she knew casually as Michelle. Worked in advertising, some family money, divorced, active social life.

Now Michelle’s hair, the mad tangles of it, flew around her face as if in a wild wind.

Behind her dishes, glassware, pillows, and photos flew in circles.

“Don’t go out there,” she repeated. “There’s death out there.” Then she grinned, horribly, as she whirled her fingers in the air. “I can’t stop! I just can’t stop! We’re all mad here. All. Mad. Here.”

She slammed the door.

“Can’t we help her?” Lana asked him.

Max just took her arm, pulling her to the stairwell. “Keep moving.”

“She’s one of us, Max.”

“And some like us couldn’t handle what turned on inside them. They’ve gone mad, like she has. Immune to the virus, doomed anyway. That’s the reality, Lana. Keep moving.”

They walked down three floors to the narrow lobby.

Mail slots gaped open, their doors broken off or hanging out like tongues. Graffiti smeared the walls. She smelled urine, harsh and stale.

“I didn’t know they’d made it into the building.”

“Up to the second floor,” Max told her. “Most of the tenants took off before that. I’m not sure if anyone’s still in the building below the third floor.”

They stepped out into the winter sunlight and snapping wind. Lana smelled smoke and ash, food gone rotten, and what she knew was death.

She kept moving, said nothing as they walked quickly through what had been her little world of streets and shops and cafes.

In its place lay destruction, desolation, and deserted streets scattered with wrecked and abandoned cars. A terrible quiet made their footsteps echo.

She yearned for the engines, the horns, the voices, the clashing, crashing music of the city. She mourned it as she walked north.

“Max, God, Max, there are bodies in that car.”

“Some were too sick to get out or to the hospital, but tried anyway. I see more every time I come out. We can’t stop, Lana. There’s nothing we can do.”

“It’s wrong to leave them like this, but everything about this is wrong. Even if they started dispensing a vaccine tomorrow…” She heard it in his silence, as truly as if he had spoken. “You don’t think there’ll be a vaccine.”

“I think there are more dead than reported, and will be more to come. I don’t think they’re close to finding a cure.”

“We can’t think like that. Max, we can’t—”

As she spoke, a girl—she couldn’t have been more than fifteen—jumped out of a smashed display window, a bulging knapsack on her back.

Lana started to speak, reassuring words on her tongue. The girl smiled as she yanked a toothy knife out of her belt.