In the After

night I’d listen to my TuneZ player turned down low, headphones in my ears. I listened to my dad’s playlist, full of bluegrass and oldies. I told myself that it was a good way to honor his memory, even though I could barely think of him without breaking down.
    I went about my routine, venturing farther and farther away from home. There was a large supermarket only five blocks away. As far as I knew, there weren’t any other survivors, so I had my pick of overprocessed food, filled with the toxic preservatives that my father always ranted against. Now they were keeping me alive.
    It was so creepy, to walk through the empty aisles, to “shop.” I avoided the produce section, quickly turning to compost. Even so, the supermarket smelled awful, but I began to get used to the stink. I’d never realized how sanitized my life had been, how clean and contained. I thought about how dirty the After would be, how the world would change without constant maintenance.
    I visited the supermarket often, wanting my cabinets to be full of nonperishable food. It became routine. One night, though, I had the greatest shock since the After began. I discovered Baby in the produce section, her chubby fingers shoveling rotten, month-old grapes into her mouth, hands and face stained with purple juice. She could not have been more than three or four. Her dirty, blond hair was matted into pigtails, pink hair ties still in place. She had been injured; her skirt was stained the rusty brown of old blood.
    I took a step toward her and immediately her large, brown eyes were on me. She didn’t cry out or even flinch. As quiet as I was, she’d heard me approach. After studying me for a few seconds, she padded silently in my direction, her arms outstretched. How was this tiny being still alive?
    I almost left her there. I was already hardened from what I’d witnessed. Instead I picked the girl up and carried her home. I decided that if she cried on the way, I would leave her. If she squirmed, I would just drop her. If she so much as whimpered, I would have tossed her aside for Them to find. How much I had changed in just a few short weeks of living in the After.
    But the girl had not made a noise. I’ve witnessed Baby cry many times since that day. Her lips tremble like any other child, her nose wrinkles, and tears run down her cheeks, all in silence. I watch her sometimes while she sleeps, guilty at what I almost did all those years ago. I don’t want to think about what my life would be if I had given in to my heartless thoughts. I don’t know what I would do without Baby, left alone with only my memories of Before.
    When Baby came, it was like starting over in the After. I was no longer alone. I still wonder how she survived for so long, since she was so young. It helped that she was quiet and had good instincts. She knew not to make a sound. She didn’t whine when I cleaned her wound, pouring hydrogen peroxide to kill the germs. A chunk of flesh was missing from the fatty part of her thigh, but it seemed to have healed over enough to prevent infection. After I’d cleaned and wrapped her leg, I checked her for other wounds, but the only other abnormality was a strange diamond-shaped scar at the nape of her neck, just near her hairline.
    Even though she looked in good shape, I still walked to the pharmacy and scavenged antibiotics to give her as a precaution. I figured she could take the same pills I was given for my skin infection the year before. I also scavenged some new clothes for her, and when I returned, she was waiting silently at the door.
    I gave her the antibiotics, guessing at the dosage. I also gave her a bath and washed and combed her hair. After that, Baby became my shadow, following me silently around the house. Sometimes she’d stop and stare at a window or wall and I assumed she was damaged from the After, unable to focus. Once she stopped mid-step, suddenly turning and running to hide behind the couch, and a few seconds later I heard the fence spark. I realized that she knew They were outside and was frightened. She could hear them, often when I couldn’t.
    I tried to comfort her, but I knew I needed some way to communicate with her. Vocalization was out of the question, voices always drew Them, and I did not want Them constantly testing the fence. It seemed easier just not to talk, and Baby was smart enough to understand this. Or maybe what she had witnessed had shocked her into silence permanently.
    I dug out my