I was distracted from scanning for Micah’s former teacher by the shocking number of people. There had to be nearly 100 people bearing down on us - maybe more. The tail end of the group was still rounding the corner.

You do not want to see that many people walking toward you carrying weapons, even if they aren't acting aggressive. I shoved Micah behind me and raised my shield, but my son stepped back out, waving and hollering.

It wasn’t until Mrs. Wright looked up and waved back that I recognized her. She’d been near the front of the group, walking with her shoulders hunched and a nervous expression: a far cry from the sunny and confident personality I remembered. She was hardly the only one - many of the people in the group were glancing at the sky anxiously, and the vast majority of the people in the group looked unprepared to be outside. Only about half of them had so much as a bike helmet to guard their heads, and there were a large number of children in the crowd.

I relaxed. Slightly. They didn’t seem like a group that was here for a fight.

Other than Mrs. Wright, I didn’t recognize anyone. I called out to them, keeping my shield up to guard my son.

“Where are y’all from?”

“We have journeyed here from Royal Woods.”

Ah. The subdivision south of us.

The overly-dramatic answer had come from a petite Hispanic woman at the front of the group. She was a study in contrasts. She wore rugged clothing, appropriate for hunting, and over her back she carried a jury-rigged bundle nearly as tall as she was. It looked comically large, like something a cartoon character would carry; the fact that she looked completely unstrained by the weight made me think she must have a lot of points - more than I did, maybe. The hand she’d dramatically flung over her shoulder, however, bore perfectly manicured hot pink nails, and her face was made up with both eyeliner and lipstick. The only other person I’d seen wearing lipstick since this all went down was an older woman I’d found dead in her own house–

I tore my mind away from the thoughts of death before my mind could escape my tight control.

At the woman's side was a teenage girl who wore a matching hunting outfit and bore her a strong resemblance. The younger woman had no backpack, but had a quiver at her hip and was carrying a fancy modern bow.

“What brought you out here?” I walked over, dropping my shield and extending a hand. “Meghan, by the way. Meghan Moretti. This is my son, Micah.”

The Hispanic woman clasped my hand. “Alexandra Guerrera. This is my brilliant daughter, Sofia.” She gestured to the bow-wielding teen. “I would never have tried to engage these horrors, but she insisted. Even through our success, I doubted her wisdom. When I heard these Announcements, I realized she was correct all along. Her stubbornness has been our salvation! She has made us strong, and that strength allowed us to escort these unfortunates here, where they might be able to purchase food.”

Sofia cringed as Alexandra showered her with flattery, and she actually closed her eyes as her mother referred to the crowd of neighbors as “unfortunates.” Her hands were tight on her bow. “Mom… you can’t just say things like that.”

Alexandra flapped a hand at her daughter carelessly, flawless nail polish glinting. “You are too modest. Meghan, this is the shop, yes? The one the Announcement said sells food?”

“Uh… yeah. One Money per 500 calories.”

“Good!” Alexandra swept past me into the shop, her daughter trailing helplessly after. The crowd broke apart as several people crowded in after her and others formed a line near the Shop’s doors.

Micah wriggled out of my grip and shoved through the crowd to his former teacher. He bumped into a grown man, but didn’t seem to notice; it was the adult who stumbled, not my nine-year-old. He wrapped his former teacher in a hug, uncharacteristic affection from my eldest to someone outside his family.

She yelped slightly as he grabbed her.

“Micah! Be gentle!” I called.

He relaxed his grip. “Why weren’t you home? I was worried!”

Mrs. Wright’s smile was slightly strained, but she hugged him back. “I was out on a run when everything happened. I had to duck into someone else’s house. This was my first chance to come back.”

Micah looked confused. “What was stopping you before?”

Mrs. Wright looked at him, amused. “The monsters, honey.”

“Ohhh… do you not have many points?”

“No, I don’t. Do you?”

“Yep! Over 800!”

“Goodness.” She looked taken aback by that, and lifted a hand to rub at the bottom of her ribcage. “The only reason I have any is the trap we managed to rig up for the rams.”

I was struggling to remember her first name. I knew it. It had been on plenty of e-mails to parents... but it had been a few years and Micah thought and spoke of her purely as Mrs. Wright. It started with a D, right? Danielle? Diane? I couldn’t remember for certain, but those didn't sound correct. I thought it was something more unusual.

I briefly considered faking a better memory than I had, but I was too tired, too stressed for any kind of social dance. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to remember your first name. It’s not Dina, is it?”

“Deandrea, but I go by Dee.”

Dee. Dee Wright. I tried to forcefully cram the information into my overloaded brain.

“Thanks,” I said. “Dee, you said you don’t have a lot of points. I’m guessing you don’t have much of the alien Money either?”

“I’ve got two,” she said, grimacing. “Enough for a meal, at least? I’m guessing my house is empty by now. The people I was staying with were kind enough to share, but we all ran out of food the evening before last.”

Her eyes were locked on my hand and I realized I was still holding two-thirds of a ration bar. I passed it over and she stuffed a bite in her mouth immediately, eyes closing with every sign of pleasure. She'd been hungry, and she didn't even have enough Money to buy a day's worth of food.

I let my gaze drift over the crowd. “And the rest of you? How much Money do you have?”

People called out answers. There were a few outliers, but most people had between zero and five Money.

Alexandra emerged from the shop carrying a ration bar. “It works! Not exactly one Money per 500 calories, but close. Meghan, was it? Do you live near here? Can you tell me which homes on this street are unoccupied?”

“Uh… all but mine.” I gestured vaguely toward my house, not thinking much about her question. Even her odd statement about the price difference only raised the slightest mental flag. I was too preoccupied with the giant crowd of hungry people on my lawn, many of whom were rushing toward the Shop.

“Excellent. Sofia and I will take this one, then,” Alexandra announced, turning toward the house that had formerly held Robert McKlasky.

A moment of silence followed her words. I could see several people in the crowd look at each other, thoughts clear on their faces. She can’t do that! …Can she? Can she do that?

A beat later, a man yelled out “I’ll take the white two-story!”

“I’ll take the brick ranch!”

With only a handful of other houses on my street, and something like 100 people in the crowd who had left their homes to be near the source of food, a massive argument was inevitable.

Those who’d been quickest off the mark of course argued for the sacred primacy of “dibs,” while the vast majority of people who’d been slower to give a shout-out argued that dibs was a fucking stupid system, and what was this, kindergarten? People began to band together, forming alliances of ten to twenty people to put the weight of numbers behind a joint claim on a property.

I was watching this, quietly amazed at how quickly the quiet crowd had turned into a shouting mob, when a woman sidled up to me with a speculative look on your face. “So,” she asked. “How many people are living in your house right now?”

Her question floored me, though it shouldn’t have. Of course people would want to move into our house. The shop was on my damn front lawn! I started to answer, listing each person in our house individually to buy time, fumbling for how I wanted to respond. I’d been happy to have the Turners move in, but it had come with challenges too. Strangers? In my house? At the same time, though, I wasn’t sure that turning people down was a smart decision. I knew it wasn’t a generous one.

My awkward answer was interrupted by a loud wailing scream from inside my house. I turned, alarmed and confused. I hadn’t recognized the voice - Arnav, maybe? Whoever it was, it sounded like a cry of pain, not of anger or frustration.

I headed toward the house, my actions mirrored by several other parents in the crowd.

A little boy, maybe four or five years old, burst out the front door. Gavin was hot on his heels, only steps behind him as he moved outside. He scanned the crowd, and seeing me, his face lit up.

“Don’t worry, Mommy! I fixed it!”

I worried.

“Gavin… What did you do?”

He looked confused. “I fixed it. I said that.”

Inhale. Exhale. Stay calm. “And what did you fix? Did you hurt him?”

Gavin looked offended. “NO. I am even wearing my STUPID butt bag.”

“Then what happened?”

“Well, he took Pointy when he wasn’t supposed to. He asked for her and Cassie said no. He took Pointy anyway and Cassie hit him.”

Gavin’s words were matter of fact. If you tried to take someone’s favorite toy after they said no, he obviously didn’t see any issue with them smacking you one. I definitely hadn't taught the kids that violence was ever an acceptable answer, but I’ll admit that if this same situation had occurred a month ago, I probably would have punished both the thief and the pugilist about equally.

The little boy’s father was holding him, checking him closely for injuries, shooting angry-but-confused glances in our direction. His son’s screams had clearly been triggered by real injury, but Gavin’s quick actions had left the kid in perfect health.

I pulled Gavin close in a hug, whispering to him. “Good job. Good job, buddy. How hurt was he?”

He shrugged. “Two heals.”

Not trivially, then. Gavin’s heals were pretty strong these days.

The woman who’d asked how many lived in our house was still standing nearby, waiting for me to finish answering. She looked disquieted by the scene she’d just watched play out, but she was holding her ground.

I stood up from hugging my son and addressed her. “How many abilities do you have? And the rest of your group or family?”

It was her turn to look flustered. “I don’t see what…”

I cut her off, gesturing at the still-sobbing toddler in his father’s arms. “You just did. We’ve got a three-year-old girl in the house with the strength of an adult man, and we’ve got a 2-year-old boy who’s not very many points behind her. They don’t understand how strong they are.”

“But what do our abilities have to do with their strength? It sounds like you need to teach them to control themselves.”

I snorted, unable to hold back a sarcastic response. “Yeah, we’re trying desperately to get the 2-year-old potty trained before the diapers run out, but we’ll just take a five minute break to teach him how to safely interact with people whose bones he’ll be able to break with a high five.”

Not the most diplomatic response, but at least I’d managed to avoid cussing her out or explicitly calling her a total moron. I shook my head, and turned to address the crowd at large. “Look, if there’s a group or family out there where everyone has at least two abilities, ideally three, we can start a discussion about you staying under our roof.”

George was near the shop, still keeping an eye on Anju on the roof. I walked up to him. “Did you catch all that?”

He wiggled a hand. “Mostly. Cassie hurt another kid?”

“Yeah. Pretty badly, too, even if Gavin fixed it right away. I think we need to separate the kids for now, or this won’t be the last incident. Since this hasn’t happened before, I have to assume that we’ve been protected by the fact that our kids have roughly the same number of abilities. The increase in toughness and increase in strength are probably somewhat parallel.”

“You need me to do that?” George asked.

“Could you? I just… I don’t think… I can’t…” I didn’t want to deal with kids right now. The process of gently separating kids who were having fun playing with each other was beyond me right now. I was a blunt instrument at the moment, and I knew it.

“No problem,” George said. “I don’t know what we’re going to do about the rest of this, though.” He frowned at the continually-growing sea of people.

I sighed. “Me neither. I’m going to call Colonel Zwerinski. We’ve got half the neighborhood here, might as well invite the rest. Maybe we can figure something out.”