(Or, A Reluctant Father’s Guide to Child-Raising in a Post-Apocalyptic World. Explanation.)
I had not realised how late the morning was until I stepped outside. The street beyond the Fence was bright in the late morning sun. The tall, over-growing grass from the nature strip in the middle of the road is bright green and glistens from the rain just before dawn. The still-damp street is washed of some of the accumulated dirt, though clumps of matted and decomposing leaves are still piled in random heaps. I survey as much as I can see from behind the Fence, a large roll of blankets under one arm in case I need to cover any fallen bodies.
Satisfied, I unlocked the gate and step onto the footpath.
Behind me, Sam rocks impatiently in his pram.
“Dada push!” he commands. “Dada push!”