I kick the rock I’ve been kicking forward as I walk down the gravelly road. I do this very often when I am walking, as a way to help me think. I don’t know why it helps me think. It just does. I am not alone. There were other survivors. When the nuclear bombs hit, the entire landmass of Earth was grinded up, like ice in a blender. I remember the day it struck, a few months now I believe. The air was chilly and I felt full and comfortable sitting with my family snug in our little home. We used to live on Long Island, New York. Now, we live on an island we call the Ridge. I then remember a bizarrely bright flash of light crashing miles away from our home. I woke up the next day. My family was lying around me and all of them were hit by debris or in my father’s case what looked like a heart attack. I felt a twisted knot forming in my stomach and I did not know whether to be thankful for living or devastated at the loss of my family. I felt both. I decided to grab my school backpack and pack any food that I could find in the house, food that was not mushed our burnt I mean. I sprinted down the gloomy gray road away from where I thought the explosion had happened. At that time I knew that we were in a Nuclear War with North Korea. They had been quiet for months now and we were plain naïve. What could I have done differently? Been more aware? Taken action? Then I realized that it didn’t matter. It happened. I can only deal with the result. That’s when I saw it. The tent. I know it’s stupid to love the sight of a tent, but it wasn’t. Because next to the tent lying on the ground drinking water were the people I would have to trust for the rest of my life: the other survivors. I have stayed with them until this very day. I knew a few of them from school or seeing them at the grocery store. It was awkward at first but I did not see any other option. I break from my memoir when I see my house again. I have come back to bury my family. I walk into the rubble and see them. It’s the last time I will see my sister, my mother, and my father. I am not strong enough to carry my father, so I pile my mother and sister on top of him and close their eyelids, for the last time. I then find the blanket my mother had gotten on sale and made a depressed laughing sound while I threw it over them. I leave the remains of what used to be my sacred and beloved home. The last thing before I sprint back to the survivor’s tent is a tear running down my face.