"No Air, No Water, No Mercy":
I woke up drenched in sweat on June 15, 2023, in our small, single-story house in Freeport, Texas. My t-shirt stuck to my skin, heavy and damp, as if I’d been dunked in a tub. The air inside was thick, pressing against my chest like a weight. Across the room, Mom lay in her hospital bed, her thin frame barely moving under the sheet. Her breathing was shallow, her face pale and slick with sweat. She’d been bedridden since her stroke last year, and without the air conditioner, the room felt like a trap closing in. It broke three days ago, on June 12, and when I called the repair company, the guy’s voice was flat, exhausted. “Ma’am, it’ll be at least a week. Every unit in town’s down, and we’re swamped.” I hung up, staring at the phone, wondering how we’d survive that long.
I grabbed an old magazine from the coffee table, its pages curling, and fanned Mom’s face. Her eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused. “I’m thirsty,” she whispered, her voice so weak it barely reached me. I hurried to the kitchen, my socks sticking to the linoleum floor, and grabbed our last bottle of water from the fridge. It was warm, useless against the heat, but I held it to her lips, tilting it carefully. She sipped, wincing, and I rationed it, knowing we had nothing else. The news on the battery-powered radio crackled with stories of people collapsing, hospitals overflowing, and fights breaking out over water and ice. I checked the locks on the front door, the deadbolt cold against my fingers, and tried to push the fear down.
Yesterday, June 14, I’d walked two miles to the corner store on Velasco Street, my sneakers sinking into the softening asphalt. The sun was relentless, and by the time I got there, my head throbbed, my vision blurring at the edges. Inside, the store was chaos—shelves stripped bare, people shoving each other for the last bags of ice. A woman in a red tank top screamed at the cashier, “You’re hiding water in the back, I know it!” The cashier, a young guy with sweat beading on his forehead, just shook his head. I stood in line for an hour, clutching my last ten dollars, but left with nothing. On the walk home, I felt dizzy, my mouth dry as sand. A man sitting on a curb, his face burned red, muttered to himself, clutching an empty water jug. I hurried past, my heart racing.
When I got back, Mrs. Garcia, our neighbor from two houses down, was waiting on the porch. Her gray hair was pulled back, her face etched with worry. “You okay?” she asked, pressing a small jug of water into my hands. It was half-full, warm, but I nearly cried. “It’s not much, but take it,” she said. Her eyes darted to the street, where a pickup truck idled, its driver staring too long. “Be careful,” she whispered. “Some folks are getting desperate. I heard about a break-in on Brazosport Boulevard last night.” I thanked her, clutching the jug, and locked the door behind me.
Today, June 15, the power flickered again, cutting off the small desk fan I’d rigged up on Mom’s nightstand. She groaned, her hand twitching toward me. “It’s too hot,” she mumbled, her voice cracking. I soaked a dish towel in tap water—warm and stale—and draped it over her forehead. It barely helped. Her skin felt clammy, and I noticed her lips were chapped, starting to crack. My phone was dead, the charger useless without power. The car, an old sedan parked in the driveway, wouldn’t start either; the battery had died on June 13, and the mechanic said parts were backordered. We were trapped, no way to get help.
Around noon, a loud knock jolted me. I crept to the living room window, peeling back the curtain just enough to see. Mr. Johnson, the older man from three houses down, stood on the porch. His flannel shirt was stained dark with sweat, his gray hair matted. He’d always been quiet, mowing his lawn every Sunday, but now he looked different—eyes wild, swaying like he might collapse. “You got water?” he called, his voice rough, almost pleading. I hesitated, my hand on the deadbolt. “Not much,” I said through the door, keeping the chain on. “We’re rationing for Mom.”
“You have to share,” he said, louder, his fist clenching at his side. “It’s not right, keeping it all!” I glanced at Mom, her chest rising and falling too fast, her eyes half-open. “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice shaking. “We barely have enough for her.” He slammed his fist against the door, the wood rattling in the frame. I jumped, my heart pounding. “Open up!” he shouted, banging again, each hit louder than the last. I backed away, grabbing a kitchen knife from the counter, its handle slick in my sweaty palm. “Please, go away,” I called, but he kept pounding, the sound drilling into my head.
I whispered to Mom, “Stay quiet.” Her eyes were wide, scared, her fingers clutching the sheet. The banging stopped, and I held my breath, hoping he’d left. Then I heard a crash—glass shattering in the kitchen. My stomach lurched. I crept down the hall, knife raised, my pulse thumping in my ears. Mr. Johnson was halfway through the kitchen window, shards of glass glittering on the floor. His face was red, sweat dripping into his eyes, which looked wrong, like he wasn’t fully there. “You can’t hide it!” he yelled, his voice cracking as he pulled himself through, cutting his hand on the jagged frame. Blood smeared on the counter.
“Get out!” I screamed, holding the knife higher, my hands trembling so hard I thought I’d drop it. He froze, staring at me, his chest heaving. “You have water,” he said, almost a growl. “I saw that woman give you some!” I shook my head, stepping back, my sneakers crunching on glass. “Please,” I said, softer, “we don’t have enough. Mom’s sick.” He took a step closer, his boots heavy on the floor, and I tightened my grip, my heart racing so fast I felt faint. “I don’t want to hurt you,” I said, but my voice broke, barely a whisper.
He lunged, grabbing for the knife. I swung without thinking, the blade slicing his arm. He yelled, stumbling back, blood dripping onto the linoleum. “You’re crazy!” he shouted, clutching his arm, his face twisted in pain. He scrambled back through the window, cursing as he ran, leaving a trail of blood. I dropped the knife, my knees buckling, and shoved the kitchen table against the broken window, knowing it wouldn’t hold if he came back. My hands shook as I swept the glass into a pile, my mind racing. What if he brought others? The radio had mentioned break-ins, people targeting houses with old folks, the vulnerable.
I ran to Mom, who was crying softly, her voice barely audible. “Is he gone?” she asked. I nodded, wiping her face with the damp towel. “It’s okay,” I lied, my throat tight. I could hear sirens far off, probably heading to another call. The news said hospitals were full, police stretched thin. I thought of Mrs. Garcia’s warning about break-ins and felt sick. I dragged a bookshelf in front of the front door, my arms aching, and checked the back door, locking it tight. I sat by Mom, holding her hand, watching her breathe too fast, her skin still clammy.
Hours dragged by, maybe longer—I lost track. My throat was so dry it hurt to swallow, and my head felt heavy, like I might pass out. I gave Mom the last sips of Mrs. Garcia’s water, saving none for myself. Her breathing slowed a little, but she still looked weak, her lips pale. I kept the knife on the nightstand, my eyes darting to the windows every few minutes, listening for footsteps. The street was quiet, but it felt wrong, like the calm before something worse.
Around 8 p.m., the power hummed back on. I gasped, almost laughing, as the desk fan whirred to life. I plugged in the small portable AC unit Mrs. Garcia had lent us, its motor rattling but pushing out a trickle of cool air. I moved it close to Mom, and her face relaxed, her breathing easing. I sat on the floor, my back against her bed, and let the air brush my skin, though it wasn’t enough to stop the sweat. The radio crackled with updates: more deaths, more fights, people arrested for stealing water and food. I thought of Mr. Johnson, wondering if he’d come back, if he’d told others we had water.
I looked out the window, the street dark except for a flickering streetlight. No sign of Mr. Johnson, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. I held Mom’s hand, her fingers cold despite the heat, and whispered, “We made it.” But I didn’t believe it. The radio said more heat was coming, no end in sight. I kept the knife close, checking the locks again, and stayed awake all night, listening for any sound—footsteps, glass breaking, anything. The fear didn’t leave, even with the power back. I knew we weren’t safe, not really, not while the heat kept pushing people to the edge.
“The Knock on the Door”:
I woke up on July 12, 2024, in my small house in Houston, Texas, drenched in sweat, the air so thick it felt like breathing soup. The power had been out for three days, ever since Hurricane Beryl tore through, leaving the city a mess of downed lines and broken hopes. No hum of the air conditioner, no flicker of lights—just a heavy, suffocating silence. My bedroom felt like a sauna, the walls warm to the touch. I dragged myself out of bed, my bare feet sticking to the hardwood floor, and stumbled to the bathroom. The mirror showed my face flushed, eyes heavy with exhaustion. My head was already throbbing, a dull ache that wouldn’t quit.
I splashed warm water on my face—it was all I had, with the ice in the freezer long gone, melted into useless puddles. In the kitchen, I grabbed a glass from the cupboard and filled it from a jug I’d stored before the storm. The water tasted flat, almost metallic, but I forced it down. I’d heard on the radio, before it all went dark, that this heatwave was a killer—hundreds dead across Texas, some from heatstroke, others from desperation gone wrong. Beryl had left nearly three million of us without power, and with no way to cool off, people were losing it.
I wet a dish towel and draped it over my neck, hoping for some relief, but it dried in minutes. The house was a trap, closing in on me. I was alone, no family nearby, no neighbors I knew well. My phone was dead, the cell towers down, and the silence made every creak of the house feel louder. I moved to the living room, where the windows let in a faint breeze, but it wasn’t enough. My shirt clung to my back, and every breath felt like sucking air through a straw. I sat on the couch, trying to stay still, but my mind raced. What if the power didn’t come back? What if my water ran out? I had a few jugs left, but not enough for days.
By noon, the heat was unbearable, pressing into me like a weight. My head pounded harder, and my mouth stayed dry no matter how much I sipped. I knew the signs—heat exhaustion, maybe worse. I’d read about it on my phone before it died: dizziness, nausea, confusion. People died from this, especially in Houston, where summers could kill as surely as any storm. I tried to focus on something else, grabbing a book, but the words blurred on the page. My vision wavered, and I felt a wave of nausea roll through me. I pressed the towel to my face again, but it was no use.
Then I heard it—a soft thump on the porch. I froze, my heart jumping. It could’ve been a branch, but there was no wind, no sound but the endless drone of cicadas outside. The thump came again, louder, deliberate. Someone was out there.
I crept to the window, my legs shaky, and peeked through the blinds. A man stood on my porch, his clothes dirty and torn, his face red and blistered from the sun. He held a plastic jug of water, gripping it like it was gold. His eyes darted around, nervous, maybe scared. He knocked, hard, the sound echoing through the house. “Hey! Anyone home? I need help! Please!”
My stomach twisted. I didn’t know him. The news had been full of stories before the power went out—looters hitting houses, fights breaking out over bottled water. But he looked rough, like he’d been out in the heat too long. His lips were cracked, his hands trembling. Could I leave him out there to collapse? I wanted to help, but every instinct screamed to keep the door shut.
I edged to the door and opened it a crack, the chain still on. “What do you need?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He leaned closer, his breath hot through the gap. “Water. I’ve got some to trade. Please, let me in, just for a minute. I can’t stay out here.”
I hesitated, my hand on the chain. He didn’t look dangerous, but something about his eyes—too sharp, too focused—made my skin crawl. Still, I couldn’t shake the guilt. What if he died out there, and it was on me? “Leave your bag outside,” I said finally. “And don’t try anything.”
He nodded fast, dropping a worn backpack on the porch, and I unhooked the chain. He stepped inside, bringing a wave of sour sweat and dust with him. He was taller than I’d thought, broad-shouldered, his arms muscled despite his ragged state. His eyes scanned the room—my couch, the water jugs on the counter, the closed blinds. I pointed to the kitchen. “Water’s in there. Take what you need and go.”
He shuffled off, his boots scuffing the floor. I heard the faucet run, then silence. My heart was still racing, and I stood by the door, ready to bolt it the second he left. When he came back, he held a glass, sipping slowly. “Nice place,” he said, his voice rough. “You got it good here. All alone?”
I stiffened, my fingers tightening on the doorframe. “Just me. You got your water. Time to go.”
He set the glass on the coffee table, deliberate, like he was stalling. “You hear about the looting? Down on Cypress Street, they cleaned out a whole house. Food, water, everything. People are getting desperate.”
My throat went dry. Cypress was two blocks away. “No,” I said. “I didn’t hear that.”
He stepped closer, his boots heavy on the floor. “Yeah. It’s bad out there. You gotta be careful, locking yourself in like this. Someone could just… walk in.”
“I’m careful,” I said, backing toward the couch. “You need to leave. Now.”
He smiled, but it wasn’t kind. It was sharp, like he knew something I didn’t. “Relax. I’m just talking. No need to get jumpy.”
“No, you’re not. Get out.” My voice shook, but I held his gaze.
He sighed, like I was being difficult, and turned for the door. “Fine. But watch yourself. This heat—it makes people do things.” He grabbed his bag and stepped outside, the door clicking shut behind him.
I locked it fast, my hands trembling so bad I almost dropped the key. Something about him felt wrong, like he’d been testing me, sizing up the house. I checked every window, every lock, my pulse pounding in my ears. The heat was making me paranoid, or maybe it was just him.
The day dragged on, each hour heavier than the last. By evening, I was on the floor, my back against the wall, too weak to stand. My head felt like it was splitting, and my vision kept blurring. I’d sipped water all day, but it wasn’t enough. My body was shutting down, and I knew it. I’d read about heatstroke—how it sneaks up, how it kills. I tried to stand, but my legs wobbled, and I sank back down, gasping.
Then I heard it—a soft tap on the back door. My blood froze. It came again, louder, more insistent. I crawled to the door, my hands shaking as I peered through the peephole. It was him, that same man, his face twisted in a grin, his eyes glinting in the fading light of dusk.
“Open up!” he called, his voice sharp. “I forgot something! Come on, don’t make me stand out here!”
I didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Maybe he’d think I wasn’t home. But he banged again, the door rattling in its frame. “I know you’re in there! Open the door!”
My heart pounded so hard it hurt. I backed away, my mind racing. Had I locked the back door? I’d checked it that morning, but now I wasn’t sure. Everything was a blur, the heat clouding my thoughts.
Then I heard footsteps, heavy and deliberate, moving around the house. He was circling, looking for a way in. I stumbled to the kitchen, grabbing a butcher knife from the counter. It felt heavy in my hand, but it was all I had. I crouched by the back door, listening as the footsteps stopped. Silence. Then a shadow moved past the window, his face pressing against the glass, his hands cupped around his eyes.
“Hey!” he shouted, his voice muffled but sharp. “I see you! Just open the door!”
I gripped the knife, my hands slick with sweat. The heat was pulling me under, my vision swimming, but I couldn’t give in. Not now. The door shook as he slammed against it, the lock creaking. “Come on!” he yelled. “Don’t be stupid!”
I wanted to scream, to tell him to leave, but my throat was too dry. The door shook again, harder, and I heard wood splinter. He was going to get in. I scrambled to the closet, my hands shaking as I dug through boxes. I’d remembered an old baseball bat, a relic from my brother’s high school days. I found it, gripping it tight, and ran back to the door just as it burst open.
He stood there, his grin wide, his eyes wild with something I didn’t want to name. “Told you I’d be back,” he said, stepping inside, his boots loud on the floor.
I swung the bat, hard, but he dodged, laughing like it was a game. “You’re gonna regret that,” he said, lunging toward me.
I swung again, but he grabbed the bat, yanking it from my hands. It clattered to the floor, and I stumbled back, hitting the wall. My legs were giving out, the heat and fear dragging me down. He stepped closer, his shadow looming over me.
“You shouldn’t have let me in before,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “Big mistake.”
My vision blurred, the room tilting. I was going to pass out, and he’d do whatever he wanted. But then, a shout from outside cut through the fog. “Hey! What’s going on in there?”
It was a voice I didn’t know, but it was real. The man froze, his head snapping toward the sound. Footsteps crunched outside, closer now. “I said, what’s happening?” the voice called again, sharp and urgent.
The man cursed under his breath and bolted, shoving past the door and disappearing into the dark. I slid to the floor, gasping, as a figure appeared in the doorway—an older man, gray hair, wearing a faded Astros cap. My neighbor from down the street, one I’d only waved to before. “You okay?” he asked, kneeling beside me. “I saw that guy skulking around earlier. Called the cops when I heard the noise.”
I nodded, too weak to speak. My head was spinning, my body heavy. He grabbed a water jug from the counter and poured some into a cup, holding it to my lips. “Drink slow,” he said. “You’re in bad shape.”
Sirens wailed in the distance, getting louder. The neighbor stayed with me, talking softly, keeping me awake until the paramedics arrived. They said it was heatstroke, said I was lucky to be alive. They took me to a hospital, where the air was cool and the lights were bright.
But even now, lying in that sterile bed, I can’t stop seeing his face—that grin, those eyes. He’s still out there, somewhere in Houston, waiting for another house, another chance. And in this heat, with the city falling apart, I know he’s not the only one.
"Three Days Without Air":
It was July 2023, and I was stuck in my small house in Laredo, Texas, three days into a brutal heatwave that had the whole town in a chokehold. The power grid had failed, leaving my neighborhood dark and silent. My old window-unit air conditioner sputtered and died on the first day, and now the air inside was thick, heavy, almost impossible to breathe. Sweat soaked through my cotton shirt, dripping down my back and stinging my eyes. The thermometer on the kitchen wall was stuck at 104 degrees, but it felt hotter, like the house was cooking me alive.
My golden retriever, Max, lay sprawled on the chipped linoleum floor in the living room, his tongue lolling out, panting so hard I could see his ribs shudder with every breath. His water bowl was bone dry, the last drops gone hours ago. I’d tried soaking a towel to cool him down, but it dried out faster than I could wet it again. His eyes were glassy, half-closed, and he hadn’t touched his food in two days. My head throbbed, a dull ache that pulsed with every heartbeat, and my mouth felt like sandpaper. We were running out of time.
My phone was dead, its battery drained yesterday after a final text from my daughter. She was stuck at her job in San Antonio, an hour away, because the heat had shut down half the city. “Mom, stay safe, I’ll call soon,” she’d written. That was July 10th. Now, on July 12th, I had no way to reach her, no way to know if she was okay. The radio had stopped working too, but not before I heard reports of people collapsing in their homes, some not making it. The heat was a predator, and it was hunting us all.
I looked at Max, his whimpers barely audible over his heavy panting. I couldn’t let him die here. The veterinary clinic on Main Street was just under a mile away. If they had a generator, they might have air conditioning, maybe even a working phone. It was our only shot. I grabbed my wide-brimmed hat, a plastic bottle of warm water—the last one in the house—and clipped Max’s leash to his collar. “Come on, boy,” I said, trying to sound strong. He struggled to his feet, legs wobbling, his tail giving a weak wag before drooping.
Stepping outside was like walking into an oven. The street was deserted, no kids on bikes, no neighbors chatting, just an eerie stillness. The asphalt shimmered, sticky under my sneakers, and the air burned my lungs. I took a few steps and felt a wave of dizziness hit me, my vision blurring at the edges. I grabbed a rusty mailbox for balance, my heart racing. Max slumped beside me, his tongue scraping the ground as he panted. I poured a little water into my palm, but he barely licked it, his head drooping lower. “We’re gonna make it,” I whispered, more to myself than to him.
We shuffled down the street, passing rows of quiet houses with drawn curtains. The silence was unnerving, broken only by Max’s labored breathing and the faint buzz of cicadas. My legs felt heavy, like I was wading through molasses. About halfway to the clinic, I saw Mrs. Carter’s house, a faded blue bungalow with a sagging porch. Her old Buick was parked crooked in the driveway, and her front door was ajar, the screen door flapping in the slight breeze. Something felt wrong, like the air itself was holding its breath.
“Mrs. Carter?” I called, my voice shaky. No answer. I hesitated, then stepped onto her porch, Max dragging behind me. The boards creaked under my weight, and I saw her—slumped in her rocking chair, a shattered coffee mug at her feet. Her head was tilted back, mouth slightly open, and her skin was a sickly gray, like old wax. Her eyes stared blankly at the porch ceiling. My stomach lurched. I reached out, my hand trembling, and touched her wrist. It was cold, stiff. She was gone.
“Mrs. Carter…” I whispered, stepping back. My chest tightened, panic clawing at me. The heat had taken her, just like that. I thought of the news reports—people found in their homes, no air conditioning, no way out. It could be me next. It could be Max. I tugged his leash, my hands shaking. “We gotta go, boy.” He whined, struggling to stand, and we stumbled off the porch.
The street seemed to stretch forever now. My head spun, and the heat played tricks on my eyes. For a moment, I saw my daughter standing at the corner, her long braid swaying as she waved. “Mom, you okay?” her voice called, faint and distorted. I blinked, and she vanished, just a mirage shimmering on the pavement. My throat closed up, tears mixing with the sweat on my face. I couldn’t tell what was real anymore.
Max was slowing down, his paws scraping the ground, his body swaying. I poured the last of the water over his back, watching it steam off almost instantly. My own steps faltered, my chest tight, my vision narrowing to a tunnel. What if the clinic was closed? What if they had no power either? The thought gnawed at me, but I pushed it away. We had to keep going.
Then I heard it—a low, guttural sound behind me, like a growl. I froze, spinning around, but the street was empty. Just the heat, messing with my head again. Or was it? My pulse hammered in my ears. I tightened my grip on Max’s leash and moved faster, ignoring the ache in my legs. “Almost there,” I muttered, my voice barely audible.
Finally, the clinic’s sign appeared, faded red letters spelling out “Laredo Animal Care.” The door was open, and I heard the faint hum of a generator. Relief hit me like a wave, but my legs were giving out. Max collapsed as we crossed the threshold, his body thudding against the tile floor. I dropped to my knees beside him, my vision swimming.
The receptionist, a young woman with a messy bun, gasped. “Oh my gosh, are you okay? What happened?” Her voice was sharp with concern.
“No,” I croaked, my throat dry as dust. “My dog… he’s dying. And my neighbor, Mrs. Carter—she’s dead on her porch. Please, help us.”
Her eyes widened, and she jumped up, yelling, “Dr. Lee, emergency in here!” She grabbed a phone and dialed 911. “Yes, we need an ambulance at 214 Oak Street. An elderly woman, deceased. And we’ve got a heat emergency here at the clinic.”
Dr. Lee, a short woman with tired eyes and a stethoscope around her neck, rushed over. She knelt beside Max, checking his gums and eyes. “He’s severely dehydrated,” she said, her voice calm but urgent. “Heat exhaustion, maybe heatstroke. We’ll start fluids immediately.” She looked at me, her brow furrowed. “You’re not in great shape either. Sit down, drink this.” She handed me a plastic cup of ice water, the cold shocking my hands.
I sank into a chair, the room spinning. The water burned my throat as I drank, but it was the best thing I’d ever tasted. “Is Max gonna be okay?” I asked, my voice trembling as I watched them lift him onto a table and hook up an IV.
“He’s got a fighting chance,” Dr. Lee said, adjusting the drip. “You got him here just in time. The heat’s been relentless—we’ve had five dogs and two cats come in today, all like this. People too, collapsing at home.”
I nodded, my hands clutching the cup. “Mrs. Carter… I didn’t know she was gone until I saw her. She was just sitting there, like she was asleep.”
The receptionist, now back at her desk, looked over with sympathy. “You did the right thing, coming here. The ambulance is on its way to her place. They’ll take care of her.”
I stared at Max, his chest rising and falling more steadily now. The clinic’s air was cool, a miracle after the suffocating heat outside. But my mind kept flashing back to Mrs. Carter’s lifeless face, the empty street, the growl I thought I heard. The heat had twisted my senses, made me see my daughter, hear things that weren’t there. It was still out there, waiting for its next chance.
“How long’s the power been out in your area?” the receptionist asked, breaking my thoughts.
“Three days,” I said. “No air conditioning, no fans. I thought we could tough it out, but…” My voice trailed off.
She shook her head. “It’s bad all over Laredo. They’re saying the grid might not be back for another day or two. People are crowding cooling centers, but they’re full.”
Dr. Lee chimed in, wiping her hands on a towel. “You’re lucky you made it here. We’ve got a generator, but even that’s struggling to keep up. If you’d stayed home much longer, it could’ve been worse—for both of you.”
I shivered, despite the cool air. Worse. Like Mrs. Carter. I thought of her alone in that chair, no one to check on her, no one to notice until it was too late. I looked at Max, his eyes a little brighter now, and felt tears prick my eyes. We’d made it, but barely.
The receptionist handed me another cup of water. “Stay as long as you need,” she said softly. “We’ll keep an eye on your dog.”
I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. The hum of the generator filled the room, a steady reminder of how fragile our safety was. Outside, the heatwave raged on, claiming lives, breaking minds. I’d escaped it for now, but the fear lingered, heavy as the air I’d left behind. I held Max’s leash tightly, like it was the only thing keeping me anchored.
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