Hurricane Florence is barreling toward us. To prepare we buy sandbags, candles and non-perishables. We hide out in the bathtub, the four of us—Mom, Dad, Gretchen and me—with the floral couch cushions over us like the grass over a grave. In our parents’ arms, Gretchen wants to hear ghost stories. Stories about the undying. Stories about what will happen to us. Dad tells a story about a man with a hook for a hand. Mom says everyone dies, even ghosts meet an end eventually, change is the only constant. But we’ve been in this tub for hours and nothing’s changing, Gretchen whines. Mom says we have to take the long view. So we yank threads from the floral cushions, cut them with our teeth and start braiding them together for survival bracelets. Gretchen’s is all shades of green in a staircase. She weaves mine in pink chevron. Our teeth fracture granola bars and send the crumbs down the drain. We drink the water in bottles around our legs until they’re empty and we have to turn on the faucet, wetting our feet whenever we need refills. Gretchen wants to sit underneath and fill herself up. Mom and Dad tell more ghost stories to distract from the hunger. When we run out of granola bars, Gretchen forages for mushrooms unfurling along the edge of the tub. Pops one into her mouth like she’s sneaking a cookie. She chews slowly like she’s savoring it. My stomach rumbles. Our hands dart into the unsafe space outside the cushions. There are always fresh mushrooms waiting. We lift up a corner and peek outside. The mushrooms had multiplied across the top of the tub, down the side and across the floor. Dad says all mushrooms are connected, that they communicate through an underground network. Kill one and another will rise in its place. Perhaps the closest thing to immortality in the natural world. Gretchen whispers “undying” like she’s found her answer. There are no ghosts, only fungi. She strokes the nearest one. In the corner we spy the original mushroom holding its umbrella high over the others. Immortal Mother Mushroom, we praised as we ate Her children, destined to die and rise again. Our mouths full. Our tongues tingling. Everything good comes from Mother Mushroom. When Sunday, or what we think is Sunday, comes along we use mushroom caps for the Eucharist. We adapt hymns. We brew stews. We’ve never been happier.