When Bird and Sadie wake it is sunrise. At first neither of them remembers where they are, and then it comes back to them in a rush: the cabin. The project. Outside the trees are like long straight arrows pointing at the sky. They are certain Margaret’s plan has been a success, certain that she will have changed everything, certain that when she and the Duchess arrive they will be whisked back to a city completely transformed, a world set on its axis again.
Only no one comes. They finish their cereal and sit side by side on the cabin steps, waiting. An overcast day with heavy air, dampening the sound around them like a thick quilt. Now and then they swear they hear something—the crunch of tires on gravel, or the grumble of an engine approaching. But still no one comes.
They’ll be here soon, Sadie says, confident. I bet there’s just traffic. They’re coming.
There is no telephone in the cabin, no computer, no internet. Nothing to tether them to the outside world. It is at this point that Bird and Sadie realize they only have the faintest sense of where they are; on the trip up, they’d stopped paying attention to the road signs the farther they got from the city. It hadn’t mattered then, but they think of the forty-seven acres between them and the nearest person. How would you find another person, in such a space? Far off above the trees, the clouds gray and darken.
What if no one ever comes back, Bird says. In the silence they both consider this. They could live here, for a time; it is warm and sheltered; the bag of food the Duchess has left could last a few days, maybe longer. And then?
Maybe we could find a neighbor, and use their phone, Sadie says.
But both of them know this is impossible. Which direction would they head in, and how would they find another house, and once they got there, who would they call, anyway? They try to imagine: they could follow the long gravel driveway all the way back out to the road, and then follow the road. It must lead somewhere: either back to the city, or farther away from it, but it would take them to people. And then? They pause here, stalled, unsure what follows. Whoever found them will surely call the authorities and they will be taken away, and not together. There’s a sudden rustling and rattling, and both of them tighten in anticipation, but there is no one there, no movement; it’s just the wind, picking up, throttling the trees. Branches whip and thrash in the air. He had never known the forest could be so noisy, or so wild.
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?
In the middle of the gray afternoon they build another fire, feeling the need for warmth, for heat, for something dancing and glowing and alive. It is easier this second time; now they know how, and they watch the headlines on the crumpled newspapers fade into the flame.
dow falls for fourth straight month; fed weighs bailout
chinese market manipulation likely a factor in downturn, officials say
Even after the fire has caught, they leaf through the stack of papers, taking in the headlines, the front-page photos. Peeling backward in time. large gathering ban to remain in place through august. house weighs measures to weed out pro-china subversives. polls show overwhelming support for proposed ‘pact’ bill.
Enough, Sadie says, dropping the papers back onto their stack. I don’t want to see any more.
In silence, they feed the fire, slipping it a stick here and there, offering it a log, nuzzling it into the flame, watching anxiously until it catches light. Flecks of rain slither down the chimney, making pops and hisses of steam. Both of them feel, without discussing it, that they must keep this fire burning, that if it goes out something terrible will happen, something precious and irretrievable will be lost, that keeping it burning is their only recourse, that somehow not only their fate but the world’s rests on them keeping this fire alight. If they can keep it alight, they are sure, Margaret and the Duchess will come back for them, Margaret will not only be all right but will bring news that her plan has succeeded, that everything has suddenly changed, that all that needs righting has been restored. They will earn this miracle. If they let it go out . . .
They don’t think about this, not daring to put those fears into words. That evening they don’t bother to cook, subsisting instead on snacks from the food bag, eaten by the handful whenever one of them is hungry. Dried cranberries, crackers, roasted almonds: they nibble their way through the day. As it gets dark, they do not retreat back to their separate rooms. Instead, they sit together by the hearth, watching the flames devour the logs one by one.
When they peek outside everything seems blurred, everything outside uncertain and obscured. No longer trees but an impression of trees: green blurs sliced by wet, dark streaks. No longer the calm water from yesterday but a slate-gray blur, something swelling and churning just at the edge of their sight. They can’t see far; a haze hangs in the air, like the spray of salt from the sea, and they pull the curtains shut so they don’t have to glimpse whatever terrifying fight is raging outside. The wind grinds against the roof, the windowpanes, the ground—so much rain, it is indistinguishable from an ocean’s roar. They are a small boat caught in a squall, everything topsy-turvy. Which way is up? They are no longer sure. The wood-paneled floor might be the deck, upended; the rain scouring the roof might be the waves, lashing and gnawing at the keel below their feet.
I’m scared, Bird says.
Sadie’s hand creeps into his, warm and comfortingly damp and alive.
Me too, she says.
Late into the night, they feed the ravenous fire, neither of them ready to give up, nodding off well after midnight, waking up as the fire dies down and the room grows cold, adding another log, coaxing it back to life, rousing it from the ashes again and again until, just before sunrise turns the sky gray-gold, they both fall asleep, side by side beneath the scratchy wool blanket, and at last the fire goes out.
