The ground shook, and Jay's coffee cup slid off the table and shattered. Jay grabbed the wall to stay upright. Outside the window, a crack split the dry field of Krigitina. Jay had spent three years planning for this day. The scientists had promised the planet would tear itself apart, and now the first tremors had come early. There was nowhere left to run. Jay had only one choice: finish the shelter, or die like everyone who laughed at the warnings. Jay ran to the old underground bunker and slapped the panel by the sealed door. Green lights blinked awake. The door hissed open on reinforced walls and sleek metal surfaces. It was strong, but it was small. Too small for what Jay planned. To outlive this and rebuild anything, Jay needed room for supplies, for animals, for a future. So Jay decided to build outward, welding new chambers onto the bunker's core before the next quake hit. A second tremor rolled through. On the plush red couch inside, Jay's pet buffalo lifted its heavy head. Steel plating covered its flanks, and pink circuitry glowed along its spine. The machine-beast snorted and stamped, sensing the danger in the shaking floor. Jay pressed a hand to its warm muzzle. "Easy," Jay said. "I'm going to keep us alive." Jay worked for hours. The buffalo dragged steel beams from the yard, its mechanical legs whining under the weight. Jay bolted the beams into a wide frame around the bunker. Sweat soaked through the track suit. Dirt caked the black spikes of Jay's hair. Every few minutes the ground jerked, and Jay braced against a beam until it passed. Slowly the shelter grew, chamber by chamber, until it wrapped the bunker like a shell. Then the biggest tremor struck. A support beam near the door tore loose and swung down. Jay dove aside as it slammed the ground where the buffalo stood. The beast bolted, panicked, and rammed the half-finished wall. Metal buckled. For a moment Jay thought the whole thing would collapse. Jay lunged, grabbed the strap on the buffalo's neck, and hauled it back inside. The animal calmed. The wall held. Jay sealed the last panel as dust rained from the ceiling. The shelter was finished. It was massive now, thick-walled, sealed tight, big enough to hold Jay and the buffalo through whatever came. Jay slumped onto the red couch and breathed. Krigitina would keep breaking, but this box would not break with it. Then a sound came from the far chamber. A soft, small bleat. Jay sat up. That chamber had been empty an hour ago. Jay stood, crossed the shaking floor, and opened the inner door. A tiny highland cow floated in the air near the ceiling, wings beating, eyes wide with fear. It had wandered in during the chaos and now it was trapped inside with Jay. And it was not alone. Faint scratching came from behind it, in the dark.

Jay stepped into the far chamber and found the scratching. A girl crouched behind a stack of crates, prying at a sealed grate with a bent bar. Green and blue hair hung over her face. Her Adidas shoes were caked with dirt. She looked up, unafraid. "You built this," she said. "You bolted the beams wrong." Jay pointed at the ceiling. A support beam hung loose near the door, one bolt half-torn from the wall. "That one swung during the quake," Jay said. "If the next tremor hits, it drops. It brings the roof down on all of us." The girl stood. "Wendy," she said. "I came in through the vent. My brother's out there and I need this shelter standing when I go back for him." She said it flat, no waver. Then she looked at the beam and frowned. "You can't reach it. Too high." The winged cow drifted near the ceiling, wings beating fast. Jay watched it hover level with the loose bolt. An idea landed. "I can't reach it. But I don't have to climb." Jay grabbed a coil of strap and a wrench. The mechanical buffalo stamped in the doorway, steel flanks scraping the frame. Jay looped the strap around the beam's low end and tied the other end to the buffalo's harness. "Hold it steady," Jay told the beast. "Pull when I say." Wendy climbed onto the crates. She caught the floating cow and lifted it toward the loose bolt. The cow's small horns nudged the beam. Jay handed Wendy the wrench. "Turn the bolt back in. I'll take the weight below." The floor jerked. A tremor. Dust rained down. The beam groaned and swung an inch. Jay hauled the strap tight, and the buffalo dug in its legs and pulled. The beam stopped. Wendy braced against the crates and cranked the wrench. Metal bit metal. One turn. Two. "It's slipping," Wendy said. Her arm shook. The cow beat its wings harder, holding position. Jay leaned back with all his weight on the strap. The tremor rolled longer. A crate toppled. Wendy did not stop cranking. Three turns. Four. The bolt seated. "Second one," Jay said. Wendy dragged the wrench to the torn bolt and drove it home. The beam locked flush against the wall. The shaking faded. The buffalo snorted and eased off the strap. Jay tugged the beam. It held solid. The roof would hold. Jay slumped against the crates, breathing hard. Wendy climbed down and set the cow on the floor. It trotted off, wings folded. "Fixed," Wendy said. She wiped her hands on her skort. Then she turned to the grate she'd been prying. "Now open this. I got in through that vent. If it locks, my brother's sealed out for good, and I'm not letting that happen." Jay looked at the grate. Beyond it, the vent ran back to the surface, back to the breaking world. The shelter was safe. Getting Wendy's brother in was not.