Maybe something happened, Bird says.
He doesn’t say it, but both of them are thinking it: maybe they were caught, Margaret or the Duchess or both of them, maybe they’ve been captured, maybe no one will ever come for them again. Or—a much worse thought, one that comes to both of them in near unison though neither of them dares voice it—maybe the authorities are coming for them now, on their way to track them down. The air suddenly cools, puckering goose bumps on their skin.
Sadie shakes her head. As if by refusing to believe, she can will it from the universe.
That could never, she says. They’re too careful, they had everything planned. They wouldn’t let that happen.
Let’s go inside, Bird says, pushing to his feet, but Sadie does not budge. Come on, he says, look, it’s about to rain anyway. He is right, the air has grown clammy and tingles, teetering on the edge of a storm. But Sadie plants her feet more firmly on the step, hugs her knees.
Go if you want to. I’m staying here. They’ll come soon, I know it.
Bird wavers in the doorway, not wanting to leave Sadie alone, not wanting to be alone himself. Neither outside nor in, he scans the gravel drive trailing off into the trees, around the curve and out of sight. Still nothing, and fat drops begin to fall, inking dark blotches on the wooden steps.
Sadie, he calls. Sadie. Come on.
The rain hisses as it falls, like a thousand tiny snakes, and where it hits, the ground writhes. It needles the dirt, punching holes that widen to craters that fill and swell into ponds. It ricochets off the gravel driveway and off the steps, jumping ankle high. Off Sadie, who still sits, faithful, stubborn, eyes fixed on the path to the road, until she is soaked to the skin and finally comes inside.
Bird shuts the door and the quiet that follows, after the whirl and roar of the storm, is deafening. Water trickles from Sadie’s clothes to pool at her feet. She doesn’t even wipe her face, just lets her hair drip straight down her cheeks, so Bird can’t tell if she’s crying. He reaches out a hand to touch her shoulder, but she swats him aside.
I’m fine, she says.
She goes into her bedroom for dry clothing, and when she returns she has something in her hands.
Look at this, she says. Look what I found in the nightstand.
A small orange bottle, a white lid. She gives it a shake and inside, pills rattle like hail.
Together they read the faded label: Duchess, Claude. In case of panic attack, take 1 tablet. The date of expiration right in the middle of the Crisis. Sadie twists off the lid.
Only two left, she says. Out of—she consults the label—a hundred and fifty.
Methodically, as the rain thrums overhead, they turn out the hidden pockets of the house. In the dresser: lavender oil, a meditation guide, three kinds of sleeping pills. Letters in a language they can’t read, with foreign stamps. In the other nightstand, a broken pencil, a booklet of crosswords—Easy as Pie!—an empty bottle of whiskey, an empty carton of bullets. Now they notice the twin sags on either side of the mattress, the worn spots on the carpet where someone must have stood, morning after morning, gathering the strength and the willpower to begin the day again. They notice the crack in the bedside lamp, where it has been broken and then repaired. Burn marks here and there on the wooden floor where hot ash from cigarettes fell.
They have nothing but time. Now and then they think they hear a sound, someone approaching, but when they run to the small front window and peer out, it’s always just the wind, the rain rattling against the side of the cabin, the trees creaking and groaning in the storm. In the kitchen, at the back of the topmost cupboard, they find old packages of pasta and beans, with best-by dates from before their births.
For the first time they are able picture it: the long months of waiting, far away here in the woods. Wondering what was happening in the world beyond, worrying about when it would reach them. Dreading what kind of world would await them when they reemerged. They’d had the luxury of retreat, nestled in this cozy house with plenty of food and running water and warmth. They’d been able to bunker down and wait for the worst of the Crisis to pass. Now here they are, huddled together, and finally they understand it, too: the cabin feels like the only safe place, a refuge they clutch with desperate hands. Was someone coming? Who would it be, what news would they bring of the outside world, would they be friend or foe, and when would they arrive? Would they die here, alone and barricaded, sequestered and isolated from the rest of the world? And would that be better or worse than whatever might happen to them if they’d stayed and taken their chances, or did it even matter?