The little girl was different from the others. She never moved.

The others were dormant most of the time as well, what with nothing to occupy their time. Unless roused, they would slump against car doors, under awnings, or out in the middle of the pavement. When something caught their attention, they'd shamble over to investigate, perhaps stay in motion for a day or so, and then find some other spot to pause in.

The girl, however, never moved. She stood with her back to the store in which we sheltered. Her dress was a faded yellow, though I couldn't tell you if it had started a full Easter yellow and faded, or begun life as a pure white dress and become discolored. It didn't matter. The frills around the bottom of the dress were shredded and blackened. Her head was tilted upwards, looking. Unless the wind picked up a great deal and made one of her arms move slightly, only her thinning, whitish hair stirred.

She was looking up at the balloon, caught in the tree. She had to be. The balloon had been some sort of festive shape in its other life, but it had been stuck on that branch so long, I couldn't figure out what it was supposed to have symbolized.

That didn't matter either. What mattered was that the girl never strayed from her spot and–from what I could tell, as her face was hidden from me–kept staring at the dead balloon.

Two weeks ago, two teenagers drove past. On a motorcycle, no less. Making an ungodly amount of racket and stirring up everything outside. We lost a good number of the ones that had been loitering in front of the store; they wandered off in search of the noisemaker.

But the girl still did not move.

She must have been…six? Seven? Somewhere in there.

My Andrea turned six last Thursday.

The others talked about moving on. They had managed to, with furtive efforts over the course of several days, cobble together enough gas to get the van to three-quarters of a tank. We were low on food, we had ransacked everything within a safe distance, and something had to be done.

I didn't want to be a part of that something.

We were just repeating what had come before: find a safe place with a bit of food just before we run out of gas, then lose a couple of people because…well, that's just what happens, and then get low on food and figure out how to keep moving.

I don't know. Somewhere along the sixth or seventh time, it began to feel…so very pointless.

I do know the girl out there is not my Andrea. For one thing, my Andrea has dark hair. And for another, she's shorter than the girl with the balloon. My Andrea's small for her age. She lives in California with her mother.

When the decision was made for us to leave, it was clear a distraction was needed. It's thicker than usual outside and a mob like this won't disperse for a week or more. We don't have a week to wait. A distraction was needed, so I volunteered.

I let them reason with me for half an hour. I wanted them to get a good portion of it out of their systems. I didn't want them to regret it after. Well. I knew they would, but I wanted to try and give them some mental leverage for when it weighed on them later.

I know. Every single person we've lost since this began weighs on me. And I'm so tired.

I asked for a gun. I asked for a single bullet. They tried to argue with me about that, but I wore them down. They couldn't spare any more ammunition and they knew it.

The plan: absurdly simple. As the others were ready to burst out the back door and load the van then drive away, I was to walk out the front and make noise. Draw as many to the front of the stores as I could. Give the van time to get away.

And it worked. I ran about the parking lot for a good fifteen minutes, banging on things, shouting, singing, whatever I could think of. Staying out of reach, moving constantly. Even a mob like this can be dodged for a short while if you're fast. And then, just like that, I saw the van pull out from behind the stores and go on its way.

The woman in the passenger seat blew me a kiss.

Jesus, I wish I could remember her name.

I want so much to believe that my Andrea is somewhere safe. Or at least safe enough. But I know better. She's more than likely standing in some parking lot, unable to rest. Whether it's a balloon or something else, my Andrea can't rest. And I'm her father. And I can't help her.

I stopped running mad around the parking lot and faced the girl for the first time. Her gray eyes stayed fixed on the balloon, even when I put the gun to the middle of her forehead.

Then I pulled the trigger and let the poor thing rest.

I stood watching her body on the pavement in the moment before I felt the fingers reach my back.

"Fine," I said and shut my eyes. "Go ahead. It's fine."