Aiden Jenkins. Emergency Supply

In the end, it turns out we were right, it is midday. The sun just hasn't shone through the thick grey fog yet—or never will. At this point, who knows, really. When we come down to the lobby, the room is in a frenzy. Not the chaotic kind of frenzy it was in yesterday (God, has it only been yesterday?) but a more subdued kind of frenzy. Lines have formed in sections of the room that lead to the distribution of food and water, it seems like, and in other parts of the room, groups of people chatter humanly—prove that a good night's rest and food in your belly can do wonders to just about anyone, even the ones in our particular predicament. 

We zigzag through the forming crowds to find who I assume must be the shepherd in this flock of sheep: Grant. He stands idle, watching the crowd buzzing around him, with yesterday's crew standing behind him in a formation that should belong in a superhero movie (right when the superheroes are about to face their enemies).