(Or, A Reluctant Father’s Guide to Child-Raising in a Post-Apocalyptic World. Explanation.)
The shopping bags are threaded over my left arm, the torch held in my left hand with the rifle under my right arm. I move the torch beam over the checkout area, past the freezers, and over the start of the shopping aisle. Two rats run past my foot and I relax. Live rats are a good sign.
I walk quickly to the baby area. From the shelf I pull down two large cans of formula, saying a silent prayer of thanks to the god responsible for this miracle substance. Two packs of disposable nappies, some arse-wipes, and a spare dummy.
Back to the front of the supermarket, I walk past a lolly stand and grab two lollypops and stuff them in my pocket.
At the exit I hesitate at the door of the liquor department. The display of clean-skin wines are still there. I look at them for a long time.
Sam cries outside.
I turn away, yet my hand grabs a bottle as I exit the store.