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 I don’t know why, but I have a pocket full of cat food. I must have unconsciously grabbed some on my way out. I’d been feeding the stray cat in the neighborhood, and that little jerk followed me into the woods. He’s been with me for three days now. He usually shows up about an hour before sunset, and I give him some food. He meows and purrs, asking for pets, and I oblige. He naps briefly while I get ready to camp for the night, then he slips off. On the fifth night, he’s late to the point where I start to worry. But after I’ve settled down with a small fire, he finally emerges from the woods with a squirrel. He leaves it on the edge of the woods and trots away. I get the squirrel and prepare it for dinner. I look around when I’m finished cooking, but he’s not there. Tentatively, I whisper, "Pspspsps." After a few seconds, there’s a faint rustle of pine needles and leaves, followed by a high-pitched chirp. He comes running over to share in the meal.

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 I closed all the blinds and turned off the lights. I locked all the doors, just in case. They might try to move on. I grabbed my axe. I didn’t have a gun—turns out they were right about that one thing. On my way to the large bathroom where I could hold up the longest, I grabbed a few more supplies—maybe this beer, these knives, and pans. I made sure all the doors in the house were closed and locked, and then I walked into the back bedroom, closed and locked that door too. I grabbed a couple of pillows and blankets, went into the bathroom, and closed and locked that door. I turned the lights out, set my supplies down, and waited. They were coming—the news this evening set off a huge reaction. I should have kept my mouth shut. Why did I have to be so mouthy all the time? I heard the echo of voices bouncing off the houses outside. There was strained talking, angry talking. Thumps, car and truck doors, and loud engines. I held my axe and breathed, trying to stay calm.

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 I wasn't sure if it was true when I passed it. But there it was, crudely constructed with a 2x4, a metal fence post, and a milk crate nailed and zip-tied around it. The camp was far from the road; if you were riding by, you'd never see it. Not that anyone did that around here anymore. I was on my way to scavenge some new comforts. Nothing crazy, nothing that I needed. This was a fun walk. A walk just for me. I didn't do that too often, but today I needed it. I looked, and there it was, with a familiar silhouette of a stack of books wrapped in grocery bags to keep the stray rain away. I stopped dead, slowing my breathing to catch any sound that was out of the ordinary. All I could hear was the steady woosh of the blood in my head. I slowly approached the crate and lifted the bag of books. It was loosely tied, so I could easily take or leave one. I looked at the spines of the books to get the titles.

I now have a book about how to build things with random objects. I remember seeing this book at the library back when I used to go. The author was a famous blogger who made all sorts of random things out of whatever he could find. I now know how to build a storm- and cold-resistant shelter with tires. I’m really excited about it.

I walk back by the post a few hours later, with the new books still in the plastic bag now in my pack. I stop and pull out a magazine I found while I was "shopping"—a science magazine with some interesting engineering articles. I place it in the bag, loosely tie it, and put it back in the crate. I wonder if anyone will ever see it.