Free Ping - From the Apocalypse by Susan Lowry

it.
    S he had no business assuming there were no survivors other than her. Why would there be? She was new in town, and although there hadn’t been any obvious signs of life on her excursions for supplies — that didn’t mean they weren’t there. Wendy had told her not to have a false sense of security. What was she thinking?
    She tried to relax . But her imagination was now getting out of control. What if it wasn’t human eyes watching her? She tensed into the towel beneath her. If any larger animals had survived they would be hungry. They could be hiding in the shadows of that grove of palm trees. Or worse, walking out of the ocean.
    Her brain was a traitor!
    Why was she doing this? Just when things were starting to get better. She forced herself to think of something else, anything.
    Ping — named after the imaginary friend she'd had as a child, who had filled the void when she’d so needed it. She wanted Ping right now more than anything. But as always, an unsettled state of mind made it nearly impossible to concentrate on something so elusive.
    She felt actual love for the boy. He was somewhere in Texas to be certain, because she'd traced his area code there. Their communications had gotten stronger as she’d moved south; they already understood each other amazingly well. It was just a matter of time before they would be together.
    But s he was also glad her journey westward to find him was on delay. This place had given her Ping, who gave her comfort and promise — in many ways even more so than the boy did. Maybe Ping would be able to find her; they both hoped it was possible. But if she moved from St. Augustine that would make it challenging.
    Kate was apprehensive about the boy living all alone without adult support, other than what she could provide from their strange connections. Yet she trusted he could persevere a little longer; his resilience was evident.
    H er anxiety over being watched now felt intolerable and she plucked up her bikini, self-consciously dressed, and strode back to the beach house with her packed-up basket hung over her arm.
    O nce in the security of her new home, she felt safer and strolled into the kitchen to check on Snowy who peered at her briefly, and then continued with his snooze. She took a bag of chips with her out to the shaded, swinging bench that looked out over the water in the sand just in front of the large veranda. Her diary was there with a pen and beginning to update it, she felt much calmer.
    After a while she felt sleepy . She left her diary on the bench and went inside again, glancing at her reflection in a mirror as she crossed the entrance way, and pausing a moment. She had put on a little more weight and with the added colour to her skin she did not appear so gaunt.
    “Snowy,” she called on her way over to him, “would you like to have a fly around?”
    Snowy grumbled something in a low tone.
    “What’s wrong?” she fussed.
    H is feathers were puffed up as if he was ill — or possibly frightened.
    “It ’s just me,” she soothed.
    She peered through the kitchen window behind the cottage, strolled back to the foyer where she peeked through the curtains, and then locked the door. She checked the sitting room, and then the bedrooms.
    “ I think we’re both getting paranoid in our old age,” she said, opening the cage door.
    Flopping down she opened her book, lay back against the solid arm of the couch with a pillow beneath her head and her long legs pulled up on the cushions, bent and crossed at the knee. She swung her foot while munching potato chips, finally able to concentrate on reading.
    Eventually, Snowy flew onto the coffee table. He peered up at her with his head lowered and cocked sideways and she glanced back at him.
    “You look discombobulated, ” she chuckled. She realized that she was speaking to herself and the bird more incessantly as time went on, and truly wished he would say something; cockatiels were supposed to talk.
    He began to