Otto sweat as he slept. Not a little sweat. Buckets. Wake up soaked, skin slick. Most of the year he tolerated this fine. Late fall through winter though it caused problems. Real problems. Man could freeze to death sweating like that.

Otto solved that by sleeping less. A lifetime ago he slept like a baby, but not now. Sometimes he'd jerk so hard in his sleep that he was surprised he didn't wake himself. He'd say things aloud like, "Why didn't that wake you up, Otto?" Then sometimes when he said that he'd find out he wasn't sleeping, or only half asleep.

Otto saw his family in his dreams. He didn't like that. They belonged to that other lifetime, to that other Otto. He wished they'd stay away. Back then he fought with his wife Missy over stealing an hour here and there to pop into the pool hall. He didn't ask much and he didn't ask often, just a break from the baby Darius and Little Odie before his shift started. He helped around the house more than any other dad they knew. Just an hour or two here and there was all he asked.

That turned attitude around sharp with the flu. Missy losing all that weight and coughing up blood. He only left her side but to hock the flatscreen so they could buy the drugs the doctor prescribed. That didn't work--they all knew it wouldn't--but they had to try to something. Couldn't just give up. Couldn't just throw in the towel. Missy fought, but that flu knocked the fight right out of her. Knocked her to the mat time after time, and that last time she didn't get up. The baby was just a year old and infants aren't built for a fight like that. Darius went next and went fast. Then Otto would haven given his right arm for just an hour more with either.

Little Odie, now she was a fighter. He remembered that hot August afternoon with pride. They'd walked to Foodopolis only to find a crowd pounding on the locked doors and pelting a semi with rocks and bricks as it pulled away from the loading dock. The crowd heard some rich fella bought up the store and all its goods on the spot, had the truck loaded up, and took it all away. When he heard the storefront glass shatter, he scooped Odie onto his shoulders and hoofed it over to the Kwik N' Go eight blocks away. She asked all kinds of questions and he did his best not to answer. A five-year-old girl should be playing house, not talking politics.

They found the supermarket open but cleaned out, the canned goods long gone. They settled for creamer instead of milk and two loaves of bread tinged with mold. Cut off the bad and do what you can with the good. It was a way of life now. They had only been in the store ten minutes tops when they heard the mob outside. Everythings went bad fast in those days. A huge crowed appeared from nowhere shouting at the cops clearing the street. Staying inside to wait it out would have been better, but he wanted to get back home safe. He scooped up Little Odie and dashed across the parking lot.

The mob grew louder, angrier. He picked up his pace but not enough. A smoking canister landed in front of them and he saw thin white clouds swirling amid the mob. People ran. They bumped him, jostled him hard, not knowing or caring he held a child. He twisted an ankle and went down hard. Little Odie disappeared among a forest of legs. A knee struck his forehead and he saw stars, his cries lost in the ruckus. The air burned his eyes and throat. He elbowed his way forward, disoriented, panicked, frantic. And that's when he saw his princess off to his side, arms flailing, fighting her way back to her daddy. She wasn't going to quit. No way.

In the days that followed things got worse quickly, bad enough that he stopped letting Odie go with him. It was a shame to keep an active child cooped up in that summer heat, no TV, no food, just her collection of second hand dolls and trucks. She griped nonstop and he said things to her that later he wished he hadn't. He tried to keep the house stocked with food, but grocery trucks were being stopped in intersections and looted. People fought in the streets, breaking each other's arms over a can of beans.

A man came around to the apartment selling handguns from a trunk. From that point on they kept the door bolted.

He had to pry her from his neck and explain for the thousandth time that no, she couldn't come, and promising he was coming back. He was having to roam farther to find stores that were open and had any goods, and besides, they were almost out of money. The cops had gone from being everywhere to nowhere overnight.

Yet things always changed in ways he never expected. Like the day he came back after hours of wandering to find their whole block on fire. Flames reaching high into the smoke blackened sky. He ran toward the building but the searing heat drove him back. He asked the handful of bystanders if they'd seen his little girl, but they were all mute. He looked all over but couldn't find her. She'd have the sense to ignore his orders and get out of a burning building, wouldn't she? Sure she would. Little Odie was whip smart.

That is of course if she'd had time.

Otto's body jerked. "Whoa, that was a big one. That wake you up, Otto?"