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Antoine

Antoine shakes the milk. “I wouldn’t,” Donyelle says.

“It was in the fridge.”

“Who knows how long the brownouts lasted around here?” she points out. “Just pour water on your cereal.”

“Ugh, tried that when I was a kid. Better to eat it dry, drink the water. Which is weird.” He rummages through the pantry. “No cans.”

“I doubt gated community families planned for…” Donyelle glances out the window. The dead are still shuffling by in perfect hexagons. She shivers.

“Hey, a weather radio! Battery-powered!” Antoine fiddles; the little woodgrain box crackles and spits.

“Great,” mutters Donyelle, “very Silent Hill.”

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