Underground.

They all congregated in the basement for dinner. Mother, father, brother, sister and me, their guest. For weeks they had been holed up down there; the rest of the house had been gutted by a terrible quake, and all they had left was the basement. We squeezed around a table in the corner. Dimly lit and cramped, we ate sausage and corn and drank wine. It was like being in a bunker. It was like being in a bomb shelter. It was like hiding; from what, I don’t know. We imagined being in a war and romanticized hiding out. We imagined living like moles or rabbits underground.