By Abby Gleason

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Our stench was tolerable at first. In spring, the air was cool enough to open the one big window in our little house, and all the siblings took turns on the sill, desperately inhaling the scent of magnolias and wet dirt.

“Small pleasures,” Mama said, “will see us through.” This was month two of the water wars, and our ration barely allowed us to boil water for rice—bathing was a luxury that felt long in the past. Not to mention our breath, like souring milk clinging to the sides of an old container. The few times we laughed, I was surprised it didn’t come out green.

Now the Louisiana summer looms, a thick blanket creeping up, threatening to smother us. I call a family meeting. My mother and four siblings crowd onto the couch, facing me.

“I think it’s time we visit Perry Lane,” I say grimly, to varying reactions. Mama closes her eyes and shakes her head, but my twin brothers, closest to me in age, pump their fists in excitement. Mama says our side is getting close; I say we can’t trust that. She heard that water could be turned back on by August, while I’ve heard that’s too long. 

Her last dissent comes quietly. “But we’re good people.” That, I agree with, but it doesn’t change my mind. Goodness can’t quench our thirst.

The vote finishes 4-2 in favor of the Perry Lane plan. My brothers and I get to work, axing our few wooden chairs and sharpening them into spikes, digging out old baseball bats and plastic hockey sticks, the closest thing we have to clubs. Perry Lane is easy to enter, provided you can find a way around the gates. That’s the least of our worries. The residents will be expecting us, and they have guns.

Hours later, long into the night, my brothers and I creep into an expansive backyard a few down from the gate. We figure the homes closest to the entrance might be more on edge. The basement is where most keep their stores—knowledge shared in whispers between our neighbors, the ones who made it back to tell the others. My brother takes a bat to the basement window and we frantically clear the glass with our rolled up sleeves, then I slide through the frame.

Jugs of water gleam. My eyes zero in on beads of condensation dripping from the metal containers. I picture licking the drops off the sides, cooling my raw throat. To unscrew the lid, dump it over my head, chug until I puke, pour it on the ground wastefully, and roll in the puddles like I did when I was a child.

“What are you waiting for?” My brother hisses. “Let’s move!” I start hoisting up barrels and passing them to the twins, who stack them on two appliance dollies they stole from work. This job is a gift, I told them when they started, don’t mess it up. Delivery drivers get the daily gate codes to every neighborhood in the city. Including Perry Lane.

Something creaks upstairs. My body freezes, like an insect petrified in amber. The basement door opens and I slip behind a stack of boxes just before the homeowner comes down. She’s an older woman, stout. She reminds me of a waitress you might find at a diner, shuffling along, refilling steaming mugs. But what she’s holding is no pot of coffee.

She tiptoes forward, just a few feet in front of me, the tip of her rifle scanning each shadow. It’ll only be a moment before she notices the gaps in her horde of jugs. A prickle of perspiration creeps along my neck, while something deep inside my stomach tugs at me to turn up the stairs and run. Or I could make myself known right now, raise both hands high from my hiding spot, beg her not to hurt me.

Then I see the woman’s hair is damp from a nighttime wash. I’m close enough to smell the rose shampoo she uses. My mother’s face comes to my mind, her lips so dry they crack and bleed when she smiles, yet that never stops her. I step out from behind the boxes, raise my bat, and swing.