The forecast was clear all week, until it wasn’t.
On Thursday morning, the radio announcer’s voice broke its usual monotone: “A tropical storm has strengthened overnight. Landfall expected within 48 hours. Residents advised to prepare for possible infrastructure disruptions lasting up to three days.”
Three days. Seventy-two hours.
For most of the city, it was a number that sounded vague, survivable. For Daniel, sitting at his kitchen table with a chipped mug of coffee, it was a challenge, a countdown that ticked in his head like a clock.
He had lived through storms before. The one in ’09 had left his neighborhood dark for a week. He remembered the scramble—lines at the gas station, empty shelves in the supermarket, the sour panic of people realizing they weren’t ready. He’d promised himself then that he would never be caught unprepared again.
Now, years later, the promise was about to be tested.
His daughter, Lily, padded into the kitchen in her socks. She was nine, still soft with the unquestioning faith that her father could fix anything.
“School’s canceled,” she said, holding up a slip from the hallway notice board. “Storm prep.”
Daniel nodded. “That means we’ve got work to do.”
She tilted her head. “Like what?”
He pushed the mug aside and pulled out a spiral notebook. On the first page, in block letters, he wrote:
72-Hour Supplies.
Then, carefully, he drew a line beneath it and began a list.
-
Water
-
Food
-
Light
-
Warmth
-
Sanitation
-
Medicine
Lily leaned over the table, reading. “Water first?”
“Always water first,” Daniel said. “If the pipes go down, if the power cuts, water becomes more precious than anything else.”
By noon, the supermarket was already chaos. Carts collided in narrow aisles. Shelves that normally overflowed with bottled water stood stripped bare, only scraps of plastic wrapping left behind.
Lily clutched his hand as they moved through the crowd. “Dad, everyone’s panicking.”
“That’s why we made a list,” Daniel said, calm but firm. “Lists don’t panic.”
They found jugs of water hidden on a lower shelf, overlooked by most. He took four gallons, heavy in his arms, and added two flats of canned soup, tuna, peanut butter, and crackers. Lily picked out raisins and granola bars, holding them like treasure.
At the checkout, people argued over the last pack of batteries. A man tried to buy six propane tanks, only to be told there was a two-per-person limit. The air buzzed with tension, like the storm had already arrived and slipped inside the walls.
Back home, Daniel arranged everything on the kitchen counter like a general inspecting supplies before battle.
“Alright, Lily. Rule of thumb: one gallon of water per person, per day.” He tapped the jugs. “This is six gallons. Enough for three days, with some to spare.”
She frowned. “What about the bathroom?”
“Good question.” He smiled. “We’ll fill the bathtub before the storm hits. That water’s not for drinking, but for flushing and washing.”
She nodded, eyes wide. “You’ve done this before.”
“Once,” he admitted. “And I promised I’d never do it wrong again.”
That night, as rain whispered against the windows, Daniel packed two plastic bins: one with food, another with water and sanitation supplies. He placed a flashlight, candles, and a radio on the table.
He wrote Day 1. Day 2. Day 3. on a sheet of paper and taped it to the fridge.
Lily watched as he drew a line under “Day 1” and listed: Soup, crackers, raisins.
“Why not eat the peanut butter now?” she asked.
“Because we save the easiest food for later,” he explained. “Start with what takes cooking. Save what doesn’t for when we’re tired, or the gas runs out.”
She nodded, serious, as though she’d just learned a secret rule of the world.
And in that moment, Daniel realized—he wasn’t just preparing for a storm. He was teaching her how to face one.
By morning, the wind had teeth.
Daniel woke to the rattle of the windows and the low groan of the trees outside. The sky was a dull slate, heavy and swollen. Lily stood by the living room window, clutching her stuffed rabbit, watching the first bands of rain whip across the street.
“Dad, it’s here.”
“Not yet,” Daniel said, though his gut disagreed. He checked the clock—8:14 a.m. The storm was making its entrance early.
He filled the bathtub, just as planned. The water gurgled into the plastic liner, ballooning outward. He checked it twice, made sure the valve was tight. Lily poked it with her finger, giggling.
“Feels like a waterbed.”
“Emergency waterbed,” he corrected with a smile. “Don’t jump on it.”
By noon, the power went.
It was subtle at first: a flicker of the overhead light, a hiccup of the fridge. Then silence, as if the house had drawn in a breath and forgotten to exhale. The digital clock on the microwave blinked once, then died.
Lily’s eyes darted to him. “Is it—”
“Yes,” Daniel said calmly. “We’re on our own now.”
He lit a lantern and set it on the table. The kitchen glowed in a warm circle, the edges of the room fading into shadow. Rain hammered harder, and a branch thudded against the roof.
“Okay, first meal,” Daniel said. He opened the bin marked Day 1. Together they heated a can of soup on the small camping stove, the flame hissing steady in the dim kitchen. Lily stirred with exaggerated care, as if her spoon was a captain steering a ship.
When they ate, the taste was nothing special—thin broth, noodles—but it was warm, and it was theirs.
“This isn’t so bad,” Lily said, slurping.
“Exactly. Not bad at all.”
But Daniel’s ears stayed tuned to the wind. Each gust felt like it pushed against more than just glass—it pressed against the plan itself.
That evening, with the storm raging full, they sat on the living room floor under blankets. Daniel kept the radio tuned to the emergency band. The voice crackled through static: “Storm surge flooding in low-lying areas. Power restoration expected in several days. Stay indoors. Avoid unnecessary travel.”
Lily whispered, “Several days?”
He hesitated. “That’s why we planned for three. We can stretch it if we have to.”
She was quiet for a while, then asked, “Did you ever get scared, when you were little?”
Daniel thought of ’09—how his father had cursed in the dark, how his mother had cried when the fridge spoiled, how he had hidden under blankets pretending not to hear.
“Yes,” he said softly. “But the difference is, I didn’t have a plan then. We do now. And you know the rules.”
Lily nodded. She pulled the rabbit closer and leaned against him. “Okay. Then I’m not scared.”
At midnight, the wind screamed like a freight train. The house shook. Rain blew sideways against the walls. Somewhere nearby, something heavy toppled with a crash.
The lantern guttered for a moment, then steadied. Daniel reached for his notebook and crossed off Day 1 dinner.
Two more days to go.
And maybe more.
The storm eased overnight, but the silence that followed was not relief—it was heavy, eerie. No hum of refrigerators through the walls, no distant traffic, no neon glow from the corner store. Just dripping water and the occasional creak of branches sagging under their own weight.
Daniel woke early, stiff from the couch. The lantern still glowed faintly, battery thinning. He clicked it off to save what remained and opened the curtains. The neighborhood outside looked bruised—trees bent low, shingles scattered across yards, power lines sagging like limp ropes.
“Still out?” Lily’s sleepy voice carried from under her blanket.
“Still out.” He forced a smile. “But we’ve got two days left in our plan.”
Breakfast was careful. A can of fruit, split between two bowls. Crackers and peanut butter. Daniel poured a half-glass of water for each of them.
“Small sips,” he reminded.
Lily wrinkled her nose. “I’m still thirsty after that.”
“That’s why we stretch it,” he said gently. “One gallon each per day. But we’ve got a little extra. If we stay smart, it’ll be enough.”
He watched her take slow, obedient sips. In her eyes, he saw the question she didn’t ask: What if it isn’t?
The day dragged. With no school, no internet, no TV, hours stretched long and strange. They played cards on the floor. Daniel read aloud from an old paperback until his throat went dry. Lily drew pictures of boats and storms and wrote the word “SAFE” in big block letters above them.
Outside, neighbors gathered in small knots, speaking quietly, hands pointing at broken fences, at dark houses. Someone tried to start a car; it coughed and died.
At noon, Daniel cranked the radio again. The voice was unchanged: “Widespread outages. Power crews delayed by flooding. Residents advised to conserve resources for at least 72 hours.”
At least. The phrase clung to him like burrs.
Dinner was beans and rice, warmed on the camp stove. They ate by lantern light, backs against the wall. Lily pushed her bowl away halfway through.
“I’m tired of this,” she muttered.
Daniel set down his own spoon. “I know. But tired food is better than no food. Remember what I told you: easy meals come later. We keep the strong stuff for now.”
She pouted, then looked guilty. “Sorry, Dad.”
“Don’t be.” He reached over, brushed her hair back. “You’re learning. That’s what this is—practice.”
“Practice for what?”
“For being ready. For anything.”
That night, the temperature dropped. The storm had pulled in cold air behind it. Daniel pulled out extra blankets, bundling Lily like a cocoon. He lay awake long after she slept, staring at the ceiling, listening to the emptiness of a powerless city.
He thought of the notebook on the fridge—Day 1. Day 2. Day 3.—and the way “Day 3” felt suddenly less like a finish line and more like a dare.
If the lights didn’t return tomorrow, they would be stepping into unknown territory.
And that, Daniel knew, was when plans either saved you… or failed you.
On the third morning, Daniel woke to the sound of his own stomach growling.
He sat up slowly, careful not to wake Lily. She was curled beneath two blankets, hair tangled, her stuffed rabbit pressed tight against her chest. Her breathing was shallow, tired.
The lantern beside them was dead now. Batteries gone. The kitchen clock still dark. The silence pressed harder than the storm ever had.
Daniel rubbed his eyes, stood, and walked to the window. Outside, the street looked like a battlefield left behind—tree limbs sprawled across asphalt, gutters clogged with leaves, cars half-submerged in muddy puddles. But what caught his attention was the people: neighbors with buckets and jugs, heading toward the community park.
The fountain, he realized. They were fetching water.
Breakfast was smaller than before: half a granola bar each, a shared can of peaches. Daniel poured water carefully, measuring the level with his finger before handing Lily her cup.
She frowned at the thin meal. “Dad… what if the power doesn’t come back today?”
“Then we go into extra time,” he said. His voice was steady, but inside his chest something twisted. Extra time. He hadn’t told her how thin their reserves really were.
Her eyes stayed on him, wide and searching. “But we’ll be okay?”
He reached over and squeezed her hand. “Yes. We’ll be okay.”
By late morning, he joined the small crowd at the park fountain. A line stretched along the path—neighbors clutching milk jugs, soda bottles, buckets. The fountain gurgled weakly, its pump struggling but alive. People filled containers in silence, the sound of water splashing louder than their words.
When it was his turn, Daniel filled two jugs, tightened the caps, and slung them in his arms. He caught fragments of murmurs:
“They say it could be five days, maybe more.”
“Generators are running out of fuel.”
“My mom’s medicine—she needs the fridge.”
The air felt heavier than the storm clouds had.
At home, Lily brightened when she saw the jugs. “We won’t run out now?”
“We’re safer,” Daniel said. “But we still ration. Always ration.”
They had rice again for lunch, thin and plain. Lily forced it down but her small body sagged with fatigue afterward. Daniel knew it wasn’t just hunger—it was stress, the constant hum of worry wearing her out.
He set a deck of cards between them. “War?”
She smiled faintly. “You’ll lose again.”
They played in the dim light, laughter slipping through despite the hunger. For a moment, the third day didn’t feel so long.
That evening, the radio gave the first true blow.
“…repairs delayed in multiple districts. Some areas may remain without power for up to a week. Shelters available for those unable to sustain supplies.”
Lily looked up sharply. “A week?”
Daniel turned the knob until the voice crackled into static. He forced a calm expression.
“We planned for three days,” he said slowly. “Now we’ll plan for more.”
He picked up the notebook, tore out the page that said Day 1. Day 2. Day 3., and replaced it with a blank sheet. On the top, in bold letters, he wrote:
Day 4. Day 5. Day 6…
Lily watched him. Her small voice broke the silence.
“I’m not scared,” she whispered. “But only because you’re not.”
Daniel swallowed hard. “Then I’ll keep it that way.”
The third night was colder, quieter, heavier. But in that fragile apartment, under blankets, with empty bowls stacked neatly beside them, father and daughter carried something stronger than supplies.
They carried determination.
It was the middle of the night when the house woke up again.
Daniel stirred at first to a low hum—the refrigerator groaning back to life, the quiet click of the heater. Then light: a soft yellow glow spilling from the hallway lamp he’d forgotten to switch off days ago.
For a long moment, he thought he was dreaming.
Then Lily sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Dad? …the lights.”
He exhaled a laugh, equal parts relief and disbelief. “Yeah, kiddo. The lights.”
She scrambled out of the blankets, pressing her palm against the wall as though to make sure it was real. Then she spun, grinning. “We made it! We actually made it!”
Morning revealed a different world. The hum of appliances, the whirr of cars on the street, neighbors stepping outside with tired but relieved faces. The supermarket across the avenue flickered its neon sign, though its shelves would be empty for days.
Daniel brewed coffee for the first time in nearly a week. The smell filled the kitchen like a forgotten luxury. Lily sat at the table with a bowl of cereal, crunching happily, as though milk and sugar alone could erase the memories of rationing.
But even in relief, Daniel felt changed.
He opened the pantry. The shelves looked thin now, hollowed out by the storm. Yet instead of panic, he felt clarity. He pulled the notebook from the fridge and set it beside the coffee. The last page, scrawled with Day 4. Day 5. Day 6… stared back at him.
He turned to a clean sheet and began again.
Next Time:
-
Water (minimum 10 gallons)
-
Food (7 days shelf-stable)
-
Extra batteries
-
Backup heat source
-
Comfort supplies (books, games, chocolate)
He paused, then added one more line, underlined twice:
Teach Lily the plan.
That evening, they took a walk around the block. Branches were piled at curbs, wires dangled in orange cones, and people stood on stoops swapping stories: how they’d cooked together, shared flashlights, pooled water. There were tired smiles, neighborly nods—bonds that hadn’t existed before the storm.
Lily squeezed his hand. “Dad, I wasn’t really brave. I was scared sometimes.”
Daniel knelt so he could look her in the eye. “Being brave doesn’t mean you’re not scared. It means you kept going anyway.”
She thought about it, then smiled. “Then I was brave.”
“Yes,” he said, his throat tight. “You were.”
Back home, when the lights flickered once—just a brief hiccup—Daniel didn’t flinch. He simply reached for the lantern and set it on the counter, ready.
Lily noticed. “You think it might happen again?”
“It always might,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “But now we know we can handle it. Seventy-two hours or more.”
She nodded, proud, and picked up her stuffed rabbit. “Next time, I’ll help make the list.”
Daniel smiled. “Next time, it’ll be our list.”
And together they stood in the warm glow of the kitchen, stronger for the darkness they had passed through, ready for whatever the world might bring.