I watch Dad's internal struggle play out on his face. His eyes dart between the group and the warehouse.
"Dad," I say softly, touching his arm. "Maybe we could help them. Just a little."
He turns to me, conflict clear in his eyes. For a moment, I think he might agree. Then his jaw sets, that familiar stubborn look taking over.
"Absolutely not. If we open those doors, we'll be overrun in minutes." He pulls out his phone. "I'm calling the police." But, of course, he can't. His phone is nothing more than a countdown, like the rest of us.
The group's desperation turns to panic; none of them seem to remember that little fact. The woman with the child starts to cry. "Please, don't. We'll leave. We just don't know what else to do."
As Dad continues to grouse at them, a distant explosion rocks the air. We all freeze, turning toward the sound. A plume of smoke rises over the city skyline, dark against the setting sun.
The older man with the cane speaks up, his voice gravelly with fear. "It's starting. The end. Just like the countdown says."
Dad's hand lowers, phone forgotten as he stares at the smoke. For the first time, I see real fear in his eyes.
"This can't be happening," he mutters.
I take a deep breath, knowing this might be my only chance. "Dad, we need to think about this. These people need help. We have the means to provide it."
He turns to me, conflict clear on his face. "Lauren, this is our livelihood. Everything I've worked for."
"I know," I say gently. "But what good is it if the world really is ending? We can't take it with us."
The young man who spoke earlier steps closer, his voice urgent but respectful. "Sir, we don't want to take everything. Just enough to get by. Please."
Dad looks between the desperate group and me, then back at the smoke rising over the city. I can almost see the gears turning in his head.
"We should have brought two cars," he mutters.
At least Dad drives a giant, extended-length SUV. He likes big cars.
Barely paying attention as Dad tells them to stand back while he takes a look at what we have, I glance around. It's shockingly quiet here. Maybe no one's thought of raiding the warehouses yet, but they will soon.
Dad opens the lock on the door and waves me inside, but I pause to ask the small group, "What are you guys looking for?"
"Formula," the mother says with desperate gratitude. "Formula. Bottles. Diapers."
"Bottled water," the older man chimes in.
"Maybe some canned tuna or something to eat," the young man adds. "But that's not as important as the baby formula."
"Got it. Just wait here."
The warehouse is an enormous space filled with towering shelves and stacked pallets. The air inside is stale and thick with dust. As I step in behind Dad, my eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through grimy windows high above.
"What a mess," I mutter, taking in the scene before us.
Pallets lie scattered across the concrete floor, their contents spilled haphazardly. Boxes of various sizes are strewn about, some torn open, others crushed beneath fallen shelving units. It looks like a tornado tore through here, leaving chaos in its wake.
"Looks like someone's been here," Dad grumbles.
Since the door was locked, I'm guessing it was our employees.
I pick my way carefully through the debris, trying to find where the baby formula and diapers might be.
A flicker of movement catches my eye. Dad's making his way toward a forklift parked near one of the intact shelving units. My heart leaps into my throat as he clambers onto the seat, fumbling with the controls.
"Dad, stop!" I call out, rushing over to him. "What are you doing?"
He looks down at me, frustration etched across his face. "We need to move these pallets if we're going to find anything useful. This'll be faster than doing it by hand."
I shake my head, exasperation mixing with concern. "Do you even know how to operate one of these things? You could hurt yourself."
"I've seen it done plenty of times," he insists, turning the key. The engine sputters but doesn't catch. "Come on, you piece of junk!"
"Dad, please," I plead, reaching up to touch his arm. "Let's just look around first. We don't need to move everything."
He pauses, his hand still on the key. For a moment, I think he's going to argue, but then his shoulders slump. "Fine," he mutters, climbing down from the forklift. "Have it your way."
As he brushes past me, he adds in a low voice, "I know what you're doing, Lauren."
I freeze, my heart skipping a beat. "What do you mean?"
He turns to face me with a sigh. "You're trying to help those people out there. I'm not blind."
I open my mouth to protest, but no words come out. He's right, of course. I've never been good at hiding things from him, even when I tried.
He waves me off.
"Just find what we need," he says, his voice gruff. "We'll figure out the rest later."
With that, he stalks off down one of the aisles, leaving me standing there, stunned. I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. There's no time to dwell on this now.
I turn my attention to the warehouse layout, trying to make sense of the chaos. I've never been in here before, and the sheer size of the place is overwhelming. Row after row of shelves stretch out before me, their contents a mystery.
"Okay, Lauren," I mutter to myself. "Think. Where would they keep baby supplies?"
Yeah. I have no idea. It all looks the same to me.
"Excuse me?" a voice echoes through the space.
Glancing back, I see the young man from earlier peeking inside. "I'm sorry. I know you said to stay back, but—I worked here. I can help find whatever you guys need."
Perfect.