In the summer, when the grass and weeds along the road at the reservation become overgrown, and the vines of poison ivy climb the dead ash trees, if it is hot and sticky enough to make reasonable people stay inside, we sometimes walk the entire way without seeing another human or dog. On these days, I imagine we are the only three survivors in a post-apocalyptic world inhabited only by bugs and zombie chipmunks and squirrels, rooting them out with our nostrils, and sometimes munching the grass to quiet our acid stomachs.