Chapter 1 – Disconnect 

It’s a calm summer morning in Cocoa Beach, the sky an electric pink from overnight storms still moving east into the Atlantic, and the world feels like it might be ending. I assume another power outage is happening, like the ones plaguing Florida’s Atlantic coast all year. I pick up my phone from its charging dock and a bold 100% immediately displays on the screen. As I begin stepping downstairs toward the kitchen, I hear the refrigerator humming. 

Stopping in front of the sink, I look closer at my device to see the four vertical service bars with a line through them.

“Why can’t I connect?” my sister, Melanie, asks. I hadn’t even noticed her descend the stairs and settle beside me. We both stare blankly at our phones. 

I’m not ready for words yet, so I shuffle across the cool tile floor to the living room and pick up the TV remote. Power on. “No signal detected. Check wifi connection.” I see movement through the sheer curtains at the front windows, so I resume shuffling to take a look outside. 

Several of the neighbors have gathered in small pods on the sidewalk in various states of staring up at the sky and bewildered looks on their faces. They seem to be asking each other questions, but there’s a lot of heads shaking side to side. Did we miss another launch? Was there a failure? Unlikely. The vibrating windows and bass-filled roar of the massive rocket engines were nearly impossible to sleep through. Having Cape Canaveral for a neighbor was a small price to pay for living in a bodacious beach town. 

“Where’s dad?” I ask. Melanie doesn’t answer. I can see she’s using every ounce of concentration to roll through the dozens of troubleshooting tips we’ve gathered from a lifetime of connection issues. I decide to check the garage. 

Our garage would appear normal from a quick glance as you drive by, holding two relatively normal looking vehicles. But if you walked up the driveway and took a closer look inside, you’d find an unexpected universe of intricately place shelves, cubby holes, and storage units. They were of all shapes and sizes, hugging every inch of floor, wall, and ceiling not utilized by the two vehicles. In fact, Dad replaced the old 4Runner with another like-model 4Runner so he wouldn’t have to redesign the entire precarious infrastructure. 

I descend the top step before calling out, “Dad?” 

I hear noise from somewhere in the back. Probably the dented, paint-speckled, portable radio spewing endless ads. Dad will be deep in concentration at the workbench. 

“Dad,” I say, more forcefully this time. 

“Ya,” he replies. I hear the metal casters of his stool roll across the epoxied concrete floor, a soothing rumbling sound. His face peers around a shelving unit looking slightly wild. 

“We can’t connect to the wifi,” I say. 

Dad doesn’t say anything. His body begins instinctively moving toward me in a well rehearsed and delicate dance toward the stairs, culminating in a bent-over-the-hood, sideways shuffle to get around the car. 

“Let’s go inside, girl,” he says to me. “Where’s your sister?” 

“In the kitchen,” I reply, stepping back up into the house and moving to find Melanie. 

Dad kicks off his camouflage Crocs and follows me in. 

Melanie is now stooping over her tablet in the middle of the kitchen, her fingers moving quickly over this new device, the phone abandoned on the counter. 

Dad squeezes my shoulder and puts his arm around Mel. “There’s a bit of a situation going on up and down the coast,” he says. Melanie’s fingers stop. 

*** 

Chapter 2 – Dead Devices 

The skies have turned baby blue as the sun laughs away any thoughts of mild temperatures today. Outside, our neighbors in the two homes directly across the street are cramming luggage, safes, children, and animals into their anything-but-a-minivan vehicles. Our calm beach town morning is giving way to chaos. 

“So our cars will work?” I say, squinting at Dad. 

“Yes. Well, they should. The navigation system won’t, but I never activated it in the 4Runner, and the Tercel is too old.” He looks down at his feet. 

Melanie crowds my left shoulder blade as I continue to stare at Dad. I’ve already formulated several plans, but now I’m confident in Plan A. 

“We need to get to Mom,” Melanie says. I think her proximity to me allows her to read my mind. 

“What? No,” Dad says, reflexively avoiding the idea of relying on our mother or her resources for anything. “Your mother has Miami Beach. Her choice. We have all our friends here in Cocoa Beach to help. We’re fine.” He looks away quickly. 

I know we’re not fine. My dad is the reliable friend. The rest of our acquaintances are booking it northbound on I-95 right now. I can sense the anxiety emanating from my typically stoic sister. Besides, my plan to head south toward Mom is the right move. 

“Dad, the radio said Atlanta and Charlotte are unaffected, so everyone and their mothers will be heading north.” I wait to see if he’s listening. His head swings back, his eyes meeting mine. “So instead of running out of gas in a never ending slog northward, let’s go south.” Melanie steps out from behind me, her shoulder now against mine, staring down Dad. 

“I think we’ve got enough gas to make Savannah,” he begins. 

“Not good enough, Dad. The radio said this GPS outage goes all the way up the East Coast.” I’m turning Dad’s survival logic around on him. Who has a battery powered radio and ninety-six spare batteries just in case the electrical grid fails? Dad does. Who has a bug-out plan going north, south, west… and somehow east?! Dad does. Who loves his daughters so much that they can probably manipulate him into following the southbound bug-out plan all the way to Mom’s house in Miami Beach? 

“Look girls, we only know what we hear on the radio. Satellite interference up the coast won’t stop everything.” 

“But it will stop lots of things?” Melanie is back with her deadpan. “Like gas station pumps, and traffic lights, and credit cards, and power disruptions.”

“Enough,” he snaps, rubbing both hands under his glasses and down his stubbled face. “Okay, that’s enough. I think you’re right. We should probably head south and look for help in Miami.” 

Small victories are sweet, but this… this makes my heart pound all the way up against my throat, and I laugh away the threat of tears. 

“Grab your go-bags. Make sure you’ve got clean underwear. Nothing electronic… it will probably die anyway. We’ll meet back in the kitchen in ten minutes to go over the southbound bug-out plan.” 

I turn to smile at Mel, and she gives me a stone cold look before walking toward her bedroom. Seems about right. But I hardly have time to worry about her. What I know is that mom’s new boy toy has a mansion with a yacht out front. Mom wouldn’t set sail without knowing her girls were safe. And if I know my sister at all, she’ll be the very first to join my pirate crew. As for Dad, I’ll worry about him if he can get us to Miami.

*** 

Chapter 3 – Southbound  

The sun is cascading down onto a sea of cars, and heat waves shimmer upward from the blacktop. I try putting my hair up again, even higher this time, hopeful to catch any breeze wafting through the rolled down windows. 

Of course the 4Runner’s gas tank was sitting on empty. That’s because I drove it last, promising Dad I would take his credit card to fill it up, then promptly forgetting while I was tapping his card for some gluten-free dairy-free ice cream at the place where the cute boy works. So now, with sweat glistening on every exposed surface of my skin and soaking through my clothes, we sit on I-95 southbound in our classy red-ish 1999 Toyota Tercel. 

The northbound lanes look to have been at a stand still for several hours without even a hint of forward motion. Cyclists have emerged as the savviest evacuees, easily pedaling past the parked vehicles, most shouldering a giant hiking pack. But the stoppage on the northbound lanes didn’t deter the most privileged drivers. No, those special people decided to start using the southbound lanes as their personal path northward. 

“Finally,” Mel sighs from the backseat.

“Looks like that monster truck pushed the cars into the ditch,” Dad says. 

Those who were selfish enough to try using the opposite side of the highway were quickly met head-on. Multiple crumpled cars had jammed the southbound lanes until some redneck ingenuity in the form of a lifted dually pickup pushed the right two lanes free of car debris. Halfway to Miami, and we were about to roll on. 

The Tercel bucks as Dad steps on the accelerator. A shotgun blast emits from the muffler, which is fairly common. But then we buck more violently as several more blasts ring out. Mel’s knees smash through the seat into Dad’s lower back, a box of Nerds leap from the dashboard and explode upon impact with the windshield, and one of us screams… I don’t think it’s me or Melanie. Dad veers hard onto the shoulder as a distinct vibration ensues and dark smoke begins to appear from under the hood of the beast. We creep to a stop with the right-side tires rolling off pavement and into the sandy soil, our left side just clear of the travel lane. 

There is stillness within the Tercel even though the traffic outside is picking up speed. My sweating noticeably increases. Our car is eerily silent, and I feel some relief when the dark smoke dissipates as quickly as it began. 

“Stay put,” Dad says, opening the car door a little too forcefully just in time for a passing SUV to knock it forward against the front fender. Dad stays seated, his eyes wide and mouth gaping. The SUV driver doesn’t even pause. 

“Hang on, Dad,” I say, quickly glancing to my right at sandy grass beyond the road. I’m making sure the redneck ingenuity team hadn’t spotted us and begun to swoop in. I open the door slowly anyway, and Mel follows my lead from the rear. We stand staring at a pool of dark liquid growing from under the engine when the rubbing of brake pads and downshifting of gears comes from behind. A large sprinter van is pulling in slowly behind us, and I can hardly force myself to look at the occupants. Wait, is this the cute boy from the ice cream parlor? Mel elbows me in the ribs. 

***