By his second day locked in the basement, Clayton had told himself that for as long as he lived in his house he would not delve into the basement for any reason ever again. His sleep schedule had been reduced to a series of quick naps—his longest being three hours—and he had promised quality time with his toilet once the Emergency Action Notification was called off. If he spent any more than five minutes in the bathroom, his mother came pounding on the door, demanding that he hurry up and return to the basement. He tried to assure his mother that nothing bad would come to pass, but she listened to him with deaf ears.
Another thing Clayton longed for was a decent meal. His family didn't bother stocking canned foods for emergencies, but they ate whatever didn't require an oven or store. The one hot thing Clayton and his family ate were hot dogs, which were cooked in the microwave until their ends burst open. They were too well done for him, but at least they weren't canned beans and bread, which constituted as a full course meal for their situation.
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