I passed through a gate and the dirt road narrowed. It was a steep climb to the top, and I told myself I wouldn’t slow down. I wanted to feel the burn in my legs and my lungs, let my brain turn off every other thought besides making it up that hill. Just because I’d gotten a break didn’t mean I could let up. If anything, it only made me want to work harder.
I ran straight up for six grueling minutes. The trail finally flattened out onto a big dirt stage with views in every direction. Tears tumbled down my face as I took it all in. I could see the ocean, the crisscrossing grid of the valley floor, the steady stream of traffic on the 405 freeway. From way up there, I could feel how I was a member of this huge ecosystem, with a million moving parts. Some were moving up, some were moving down. Some, like me, had been moving in circles—the bottom of the pyramid so there could be a top.
A bike whizzed by me and shook me out of my trance. There were trails in every direction. Of course, I picked the one that went up. Because, for the first time since moving to LA to pursue my dream, I was certain that was the direction I was headed.
CHAPTER 47
* * *
LOUISA
My house was built in the 1950s at the height of the Cold War. The threat of earthquakes was a constant in Southern California, so it was rare for homes to have basements. But mine had something better, an accoutrement designed to protect you and your loved ones from a disaster even more frightening than an earthquake: namely, nuclear war.
My bomb shelter was pretty plush as far as bomb shelters go, with an eat-in kitchen （green linoleum with stainless-steel countertops）， a proper bedroom （full-size four-poster bed）， a full bathroom （same green linoleum and stainless）， and a small but pleasant sitting area （tan L-shaped couch and utilitarian coffee table）。 With its exposed cinder block walls and space-age wall sconces, I could have easily marketed it as an industrial-chic guest house and rented it for two grand a week—if it weren’t fifteen feet underground and unequivocally illegal, that is.
Like all good secret bunkers, its existence was largely unknown. The entrance was at the edge of the garden outside my study, ten steps beyond the bird feeder at the edge of the woods. My husband had built a small toolshed to cover the trapdoor, which was hidden under a plain four-by-four rubber mat with magnets on the bottom so it would automatically snap back to cover the door once you closed it behind you. The stairs leading down to the hideaway were narrow but not steep, but I still took them slowly, holding on to the rails on both sides as I descended.
There were no windows, of course—it was underground. But air came in and out through a cylindrical chimney-type vent disguised as a bird feeder. The technology was similar to an igloo. In the winter months, when the outside air was cooler, the warmer, lighter inside air would rise and flow out. A battery-operated pump was necessary to control airflow in warmer weather, or when the shelter was at full occupancy （three or more people）， but it was almost November, and I was only one person, so I didn’t trouble myself to figure that out.
The batteries that powered the lights, apartment-size refrigerator, and electric range （no gas!） were charged by solar panels on the roof of my garage. It was important for a doomsday shelter to survive off the grid, so I tolerated the ugly blue-gray panels that my husband had installed to replace the aging generator. The shelter had a literal wall of batteries, each one the size of a loaf of bread. In addition to solar panels, my husband had installed a stationary bicycle so that one’s legs could provide energy on the days the sun could not. The batteries were old now but could still hold a charge for several days. I was only planning to be down there until midweek, so even if it rained nonstop, I would be spared the burden of cycling for my supper.
I hadn’t been down to my shelter for several years, so I was pleased to find it tidy and intact. The structure was not airtight, but miraculously no dust, rats, or mold had infiltrated. The furniture—while dated—had hardly been sat or slept on, so was in fine shape. My husband had filled the small bookcase in the bedroom with how-to books （simple knitting, easy automotive repair, pipe bombs for dummies） because he thought it was cute. I would have preferred the company of Dickinson or Rilke during Armageddon, but I understood the practicality of learning to be self-sufficient in the event of a catastrophe, so embraced my unconventional library.
We didn’t have any food down there anymore save a few expired emergency rations （amorphous, freeze-dried God knows what）， but I didn’t eat much. I could bring down what I needed in one trip: tea, milk, bread, butter, and jam, plus potatoes, carrots, and lentils for soup, and some smoked meat for sandwiches. Oh, and a box of Lorna Doones. I’d bought one special just for the stay. The shelter didn’t have a television, but my husband had had the foresight to run the wiring for our closed-circuit security system down here, which, once plugged into the monitor from my pantry, would be all the entertainment that I needed.