Ashen Winter (Ashfall)

the loop of this conversation. I knew Mayor Kenda meant well, but she might decide that the best thing for us would be to take our truck and keep us here in Worthington, where we’d be “safe.” I strode directly to the library door and jerked it open.
    Rita Mae was at her desk, reading by the light of an oil lamp. She had one hand on the shotgun propped against a bookcase, but when she saw me her face broke into a huge grin. She let go of the shotgun and darted around her desk. She hugged me surprisingly hard for such a tiny old lady, and I struggled not to collapse and pull us both off our feet.
    When Rita Mae broke the embrace, she started talking to me. I could make out a word here or there, but not enough to follow what she was saying. I pointed to my ears and pantomimed an explosion.
    Rita Mae got it right away. She took a stubby library pencil and a sheet of paper that looked like it was the fly-leaf from a book off her desk. “I was afraid I wouldn’t see you again,” she wrote.
    “Darla’s gunshot wound is bad,” I said. “We need help.” I swayed on my feet and grabbed the edge of the desk for support.
    “Paramedic’s in the fire station,” Rita Mae wrote. She tucked the paper and pencil into her pocket, grabbed my arm, and led me out of the library.
    I tried to veer toward the pickup where Darla was, but Rita Mae pulled me to the pedestrian door of the fire station. Inside, the station was sparsely illuminated by a small fire smoldering on the concrete floor. A man in a worn paramedic uniform sat on a metal folding chair beside the fire. Rita Mae said something, and he sprang to his feet, rushing past us toward the pickup.
    A small hole had been cut high up on a nearby wall to let out the smoke. A row of cots lay to the left of the fire. On the right, there was another room created with make-shift curtains. More metal folding chairs were scattered randomly throughout both rooms. There wasn’t a fire truck in the station. When I’d been here last year, it had been stuck in the ash outside—obviously it had been moved, but not back into its garage.
    The paramedic returned, carrying Darla in his arms. He ushered me into the curtained area, and Rita Mae followed us. Inside, there was a vinyl exam couch, two rolling chairs, and a stainless-steel table with cabinets under it.
    The paramedic examined Darla efficiently, inspecting the wound in her shoulder and taking her temperature, blood pressure, and pulse.
    “Can you treat the infection?” I asked.
    The paramedic said something I couldn’t make out. Rita Mae whipped out her paper and pencil and wrote out his words for me. “I’m not supposed to have to treat everything. I just stabilize them and drive them to the Mercy Medical in Dyersville. That’s the way it’s supposed to work.”
    “She needs antibiotics, right?”
    “Yes. And a doctor to clean and debride that wound.”
    “So what do we do?” I asked.
    “Nothing,” the paramedic replied. His voice was so loud and anguished that I could understand it even without Rita Mae’s written translation.
    “Nothing?” I yelled. “At least give her some antibiotics!”
    “Can’t. They’re rationed. Mayor Kenda keeps them locked up.”
    “They’re—” I stepped away from the paramedic and slammed my palm into the corrugated metal wall. The pain got me thinking again.
    I dug around in my jacket and pulled out the last eleven packets of kale seeds. “I want a ten-day course of antibiotics and a week’s worth of food for five people.” It suddenly occurred to me that kale seeds might not be as valuable now. Presumably Worthington would be growing the ones I’d traded to them right after Darla was shot. I dug deeper in my pocket, pulled out one of my carefully hoarded bags of wheat, and handed it to Rita Mae with all the kale seeds.
    “I can get a lot more than that if you give me time to negotiate,” Rita Mae wrote.
    “I don’t care. We’re leaving Worthington in fifteen minutes. I’m taking Darla to Dr. McCarthy in Warren.”
    “You’re falling down on your feet. You leave now you’ll wreck your truck.”
    I started to yell that I didn’t care but bit back my words. She had a point. Crashing on the way to Warren wouldn’t get Darla the help she needed. “You’re right,” I said quietly. “We should get Darla started on her antibiotics, get something to eat, and sleep a few hours.”
    The paramedic said something to Rita Mae. “Floyd says he’s got extra