(Or, A Reluctant Father’s Guide to Child-Raising in a Post-Apocalyptic World. Explanation.)
In the front room is our pram. Sam’s chariot. My pride.
The selection of the pram was on of the few things I had control over in the months of Sam’s approach. I had spent several hours one morning in the pram section of a baby warehouse. Prams sat in rows like a car showroom, and I carefully test drove every model around the warehouse; feeling the shifting weight as it cornered; checking the break’s release lever; collapsing the frame for storage and transport.
I eventually decided on a model from Sweden, that had six different configurations like a transforming toy.
Since Zero Hour, it has had only two modifications. The harness that holds Sam snugly can now be released from the main frame of the pram, and Sam can be thrown papoose-like onto my back for quick get-aways. This involved several nights of careful snipping and stitching, and the cannibalising of two backpacks and one child’s car seat.
The second modification is the rifle bag slung under the handle.