In the After

dad’s book on sign language and began to teach her and myself. Through the years we’ve modified our language to fit our purpose. We sign into each other’s hands when we’re near. Now, we can have an entire silent conversation moving only our fingers, but when we started I used only a few simple words. Food. Quiet. Bad. Good. Baby .
    Calling her Baby seemed to fit; for all I knew she was the last toddler on earth. She took to the signs remarkably well, mimicking my every action. She became my constant companion. She wanted to be everywhere I was and do everything I did. If it had been Before, I would have been annoyed, but I was starved for human interaction. Baby didn’t just become my family, she became my entire world.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Amy . Baby wakes me by signing onto my face. Three years have passed, so she’s a child now, not a baby, but my label has become her name.
    What? I ask crankily. I’m sleeping .
    I saw it again , she tells me, her fingers move with a desperate swiftness. The ship .
    I sit up and look into her eyes, large and shining. She should be afraid, but instead she is excited. Her lips curve slightly, almost forming a smile.
    Show me , I demand.
    She grabs my hand and we hurry to the roof. I don’t bother to get dressed. Years ago, Before, I would never have gone out on the roof deck in my underwear. Years ago, I would have been careful of the neighbors. But now, in the After, there are no neighbors.
    See? There! Baby hands me the binoculars. I look out over the houses. Sure enough, there is another black object, hovering in the distance. When we first spotted them, I told Baby they were ships, for lack of a better word. The sign in the book is actually “boat,” but Baby doesn’t know that. The signs are what I make them, a visual representation. I didn’t know how to explain “spaceship.”
    The ship looks more like a helicopter, anyway, except without the tail end. No windows either. I can’t hear the engine from where we are and I wonder at the single blade, keeping it airborne. What differences in technology do They possess? The ship’s material looks odd: it’s not metal; it can’t be. It doesn’t throw the light back. Even in the early morning predawn glow, it should still reflect something. I’m impressed Baby noticed it at all. She must have been on the lookout. We’ve only started seeing the ships recently and any break from the norm is a cause for excitement. I scan the ground to see if any creatures are on the prowl yet, but there are none.
    I look back to the ship, which hovers in the distance, unmoving. If it is a spacecraft, why would They wait three years to reveal their mode of transportation? If it isn’t a spaceship . . . But I don’t even entertain the idea. I’ve never seen anything like them before. The ships had to have been brought by Them.
    The craft lowers itself slowly in the distance. A few blocks away, maybe more. I map it in my head: Oz Park. It landed in the park.
    I’m going to go have a look , I tell Baby. You stay here .
    She shakes her head no and points at the sky.
    It’s not quite daybreak, but if I leave now I will be pushing it. I can get out to the park before sunup, but I doubt I’ll be able to make it back home again. I will have to be very careful.
    I run downstairs and put on my camouflage pants and hooded sweatshirt. They are from years ago and the pants no longer fit me properly, my ankles stick out the bottom. Floods , my dad would have joked. I bought them when army greens were in style and haven’t been able to scavenge any that fit better. Designers probably didn’t take into account an imminent postapocalyptic scenario; they had no idea how useful these would be. With the creatures’ poor eyesight, the camouflage pattern helps me blend into grass or shrubbery. But I’ve never tried it in daylight before.
    I grab my pack, with the gun tucked inside. In three years I’ve never shot it, but I like having it close. I sometimes think about taking a few of Them out, lessening their population, but there are so many, it wouldn’t do much good.
    Before I run out the front door, I kiss Baby on the forehead. Stay here , I say with a look. The last thing I need is to worry about her following me.
    I jog barefoot to the park. I’ve been practicing running at home on the treadmill in the basement and have developed a way to breathe silently. My mouth gapes open strangely, but who is around to judge? I run through the