“We can’t stay here. We have to find a way to Lufthaffen. My sister can help us find a place to stay, maybe even get us out of the country,” says Victor.

“It’s too risky, how will we get there? We’re wanted—that’s for sure—and we don’t have fake papers to make the trip. That’s almost six-hundred miles,” says Charles.

“It is risky, but what other choice do we have? We can’t go back to Einsam, and we need help. We can’t do this by ourselves. But you’re right, we need papers to travel. And we’ll need money, food, provisions. Nothing we have here,” I say.

“It’s a gamble, but if the Sheffield’s still live down the road they could help us, Charles,” says Cornelia.

“That’s a big risk. Who knows if they are still there. And it’s been twenty years. There is no telling if they’re still sympathetic to people like us.”

“Subversives?” Gette chimes in.

Charles sighs, and cracks a pathetic smile, “I suppose that’s what we are isn’t it.”

“I don’t want to get lumped in with Fowler, but I guess you’re right. We’re fugitive subversives on the run from,” I try to tally our enemies. “Everyone.”

“I don’t want to be a bad guy. We’re not bad guys… are we?”

Cornelia reaches across the table and grabs Gette’s hands. Gette’s face is scrunched, her eyes darting around our faces.

“We’re not the bad guys my darling. But the Caretakers and the Peace Officers don’t know that. They think we’re bad people.”

“Can’t we just talk to them? I’m sure once they met us they’d know we’re not bad and we wouldn’t have to run anymore.”

“Yeah let’s walk on up to a checkpoint and explain ourselves,” says Victor.

“Hey,” barks Charles, “that’s uncalled for. We’re all stressed out enough without your snark!”

“I’m sorry Charles. And I’m sorry Gette. It’s just so frustrating being lumped in with radicals.”

“To be fair Victor, Damien was one of us,” I say.

“So now he’s a radical? Now we’re subversives? Should we just go and throw our lot in with Fowler? You knew him for five minutes and you dare condemn him and lump him together with murderers?”

“He murdered people Victor, he attacked and killed innocent people.”

“And what about you? How did you get out of the apartment? Huh? How did you get out!”

“Enough!” Cornelia’s chair clatters to the floor sending up a small cloud of dust. Gette quietly sobs. Her lips trembling. My hands dig into the edge of the table. I’m seething.

“Enough. We’re all hungry, exhausted, and grieving. We can’t break down now. Charles, try and get everyone something to eat and I’ll go talk to the Sheffield’s. They’ll remember me, and I should be able to get them to help.”

We stew for a moment. The creaking of the house melds with Gette’s sobs. The sound is defining. A nagging reminder that nothing is alright. Cornelia turns to leave. My chair screeches against the dust covered floor as I stand.

“I’ll go. You have Charles and Gette to look after. If something happens to me, well that’s okay. I’m expendable.”

“Absolutely not. You’re not, in any way, expendable. I need you to stay here with Gette, keep her safe.”

Gette turns to her mother and then to me.

“You’re coming back real quick, right?”

“Always darling.”

Gette bursts from the table and leaps into her mother’s arms. Cornelia squeezes her tight then sets her down.

“I’ll be back soon.”

The door slams behind her. We sit and listen as her footsteps fade into silence.

“Come on Victor, I think I know where the emergency provisions are buried. Hopefully, they’re still there and still edible.”

Victor keeps his eyes on his feet and follows Charles out the door. Alone, Gette turns to me.

“Everything is going to be okay, right?”

Her words are so frail, the stress is getting to her. The light in her eyes is still there, but every passing moment in this world threatens to snuff it out. I kneel down and take her hands in mine.

“It’s going to work out. I promise.”

Her cheeks lift into a smile.

“So, we’ve got some waiting to do while your mom gets us help. What do you want to do?”

“Mom said there’s an attic full of cool old stuff. We should go adventuring!”

The idea of playing at a time like this feels wrong, but the distraction would be nice. Plus, it might actually be fun. If this world could use anything, it’s a little more fun.

“Race you up the stairs!” I shout, leaping to the air before Gette even knows the race is afoot.

My feet fly up the stairs and I’m nearly to the landing before I hear Gette’s protest.

“No fair!”

I pause for a moment at the top. I see the room I slept in­—the door still ajar, a dried muddied mess stands out against the uniform layers of dust. Similar disturbed trails of muddy feet trace lines into the other bedroom where Cornelia and Gette slept. I follow the unbroken patches of dust with my eyes and see the way to the attic. A tight twisting stair wide enough for only one person at a time. But I’m too slow. In the time it took me to gather in my surroundings, Gette stole the lead.

“Hey!” I shout. Though out of breath, aching, and hungry I feel a real sense of joy wash over me. I haven’t played in so long it feels nice to pretend I’m a kid again and the world outside this house doesn’t matter.

“Too slow, I win!” Gette stands triumphantly at the top. The single shaft of light coming from the rose window bathes her in glory.

“That was no fair, I didn’t really know where we were going,” I say putting my hands on my hip.

“You started before me, so I think maybe it’s a tie then. Does that sound okay?”

I step toward her and extend my hand as an olive branch.

“A tie.”

A wicked smirk tugs on Gette’s cheeks—just visible under her mask.

“Nope, I win!” As quick as her words, she races into the attic.

“Get back here!” Gette giggles and avoids my clumsy swipes at her. Our feet stir up the dust. My giggles mix with hers. She deftly outmaneuvers me for two full laps of the cramped attic—her little feet giving her the edge in the narrow walkways between mounding boxes. But she can’t get away. Catching up to her in the corner nearest the window, I finally get my hands on her stomach.

“Winners get tickled!” My fingers dance about wildly. Gette crumbles into a laughing heap on a pile of newspapers. I fall after her and continue my relentless tickle attack.

“Stop, stop. It was a tie. It was a tie!” I stop my fingers and roll over onto a stack of old newspapers. Heaving breaths through my mask, we both giggle and stare at the golden dust dancing in the light.

Having caught our breath, we turn our attention to the space around us. I sit up to take it in. A lifetime, or perhaps longer, of accumulated stuff is strewn about in disorganized heaps. Thick dust covers documents, furniture, pictures, and mysterious objects shrouded in moth-eaten tarps. Gette digs into the pile of documents beneath her. Bank records, pay stubs. Receipts from forty years ago for dry cleaning. Interspersed with it all are decades of old Caretaker pamphlets. Handed out on street corners, they’re just one of the many things I took for granted in the city. As common place as the soot, they hardly register my attention. But seeing them piled together is like looking through time. The words I had grown so accustomed to—Keep Your Opinions to Yourself! Wear Your Mask—aren’t as unchanging as I thought. United, We Rise! Against Subversion We Are One. Make Our Society Great Again—Do Your Part to Build a Better Tomorrow. The tone is similar—someone is telling us what to do, what to think—but the fear, the anxiety is missing. I thought that was how it had always been. It feels like it. I think that’s what I saw in the machine. But here it is, in muted pastels on yellowing paper, a different past, a different Great Society. How did it change so much, how did we end up here? Every stone overturned obscures more than it reveals.

Gette holds up one of the oldest looking pamphlets to me.

“We’re trying to make a better tomorrow, right?”

“I think so. Though, I’m not really sure how we’ll do that. That’s the goal I guess.”

“We just have to do better today than yesterday?”

“Anything is better than yesterday.”

“I don’t know, today was pretty bad too. Papa’s really gone.” The pamphlet trembles in her hand. I can feel the void crushing down. The bubble of laughter and joy we built could only last so long. I have to push back, keep from slipping deeper into that darkness. I dart my eyes around looking for a distraction, a way out of this conversation, this reality, and back into the bubble. Pamphlets, bus tickets, dry cleaning stubs, theater tickets, newspaper articles. I focus in on the closest headline. Only part of it is visible underneath the other papers. Protests rage at the Halls of Justice Over… The rest is obscured. I can hardly push the other documents away fast enough. This is something real, something important and I have to know what it is. Radical New Law.

Holding it in both hands, my eyes race across the page. ‘Protesters argue corruption between Personal Protection Supplies CEO Sexton Domnhall and High Caretaker Pruitt is unlawful…Citizens will be required to purchase, maintain, and wear an approved gas mask at all times…Domnhall argues the threat of subversion is too great to go on as normal…Protesters claim this law is nothing but corporate cronyism and an abuse of the Council of Industry… However, High Caretaker Pruitt condemns the protesters’ actions as subversive and influenced by foreign terrorist groups.’

Transfixed, my obsession diverts Gette’s gaze away from her grief.

“You look like a ghost! What did you find?” She asks.

This is beyond what I can handle. I don’t know what to think let alone know how to respond.

“Here,” I say. The word almost a whisper. Gette grabs the paper with some hesitation as if the words will jump off the page and attack her. I watch her eyes drag back and forth, pausing on some places and staring at others. It feels like it takes her an eternity to read the short article. Every instant thumps in my head like a drum. How does this all fit together?

“What does it mean?” Gette says.

“I’m not sure. This is new to me. I don’t even know what to say.”

“Mom and dad will know.”

“We’ll ask them about it later, but right now let’s look for more articles. Maybe if we can find some more, things will start to make sense.”

Gette nods and begins to sort through the piles of documents.

“Found another one!”

“Quick give it here, I’ll make a pile.” I pluck the articles from her hand and place them on a small patch of cleared floor.

We search frantically. Hidden in the boxes of junk are articles from before I was born about the New Laws and the gradual changes to the Great Society. Fifteen years ago is the newest one. A short strip with a single line ripped from the editorial page. Brutal Crack-Downs Trigger Backlash; Subversion Here to Stay. After that nothing. Either people stopped caring, or the papers stopped talking about it. There are so many articles, all saved for a purpose. And it’s clear whoever saved these documents knew they would be dangerous and split them up.

Gette hands me a few more articles and I add them to the growing pile. Protests, riots, lawsuits—there was so much activism, so much resistance to the world we live in now. The Caretakers have done a good job of wiping it all away. But is that even possible? Did they take it away or did we choose to forget? The information was there, I could’ve known I guess, I could’ve found these things out. Why didn’t I look harder? Why was I so selfish? All that matters now is that I’m trying to do the right thing. I’m doing what I can to learn from my mistakes.

I sort the articles by date. Oldest to newest. Gette hands me more and I slip them into the system. Twenty, thirty, forty, the stack of articles piles up. Gette hands me yet another. At first glance it’s headline seems to fit in with all the others—Protests in Liberty Square—but something makes me pause. I set down the stack of articles and turn my full attention to this one. My eyes shoot to the upper right scanning the date December 23, 416. I was born in that summer. I would’ve been six months old. Strange to think that I was alive at the time that was so different than what I’ve always known. It’s as if I was born into one world and grew up in another. My eyes go down the page to the picture. A palm-sized black halftone image shows the familiar cobblestones of Liberty Square. People holding banners march in circles around the middle of the square in an area cordoned off by concrete barriers. The quality of the photo makes it very difficult to see what the banners say but it’s clear they’re protesting the Caretakers’ decision to implement the New Laws. I pull the paper close and study the image. The longer I look the more it makes the hair on the back my neck stand on edge. Dread washes over me as I recognize its familiarity. Yet I can’t place it. I can’t say where I’ve seen this before but I know that I have. I fix my gaze on it desperate for any sign, anything to let me know where I’ve seen this before. And then I see it and my heart stops.

On the left edge of the image, blurry, but clear enough to me, is Mother. There is no way to tell for sure—the quality of the image is terrible and time has done in its damage to this document—but I know it’s her. The way she used to sweep her hair to the left, the ruffled mustard yellow blouse and woolen skirt she used to wear, the way she held herself when I was little, shoulders back chin up. It has to be her but there is something in this image that unsettles me and it hits me in the stomach like a punch. In one hand, she holds a banner high and around her back there is a child bundled in a sling—it has to be me. I had pieced that much together. No, what I can’t understand is the person standing to her left. Holding her left hand is a girl. She looks like me. But I was only six months old and I don’t have any siblings. At least I don’t think I have any siblings. Her hair is black and cut into a Bob. She’s thin, almost frail, but her hand is raised in defiant protest and her mouth is open wide screaming a chant. She can’t be more than six years old and already she’s such a different girl than I was at that age. I feel sick to my stomach. The room starts to swirl and I can barely hold onto the paper.

“Is everything okay, Evelyn? You look sick—what’s on that paper?”

Unable to speak I hand Gette the article. She looks it over intently looking for something horrific. Unable to spot the monster, she looks up at me perplexed.

“I don’t understand. Does it say something bad?”

She offers the paper back to me and I take it with trepidation. It can hardly weigh more than a few grams, but it feels like a lead weight.

“I don’t know what it means Gette, but I think it changes everything.”

“Is it something in the picture?”

“Someone. My mother and my sister.”

“I didn’t know you had a sister?”

“Neither did I.”

Gette is confused, I know I am. We began to play as a distraction from the world yet it led us straight into it. Everything I thought I knew, the person I thought I was, is unraveling. Mother, I thought I knew her. I thought she was trapped, scared, and alone. Maybe she was when I can remember her, but there she is in the photograph, defiant and alive. I thought she didn’t really love me. I thought she didn’t stand for anything that she was too afraid to even leave the house. This proves that for all the observing I’ve done, I never thought to turn around from the windows and notice her. I was so sure that she was someone I didn’t want to know—didn’t need to know—that I tuned her out through the glass just like she and Father blocked me out with the television.

The guilt of letting Mother die, the guilt of never knowing her, the guilt of shutting her out, stabs at me digging and twisting into my heart. I took her on face value and I was wrong. But it’s not just Mother, I’ve been doing that with everything. I’ve taken the Great Society at its word—wear your mask, keep your opinions to yourself. I thought I was being defiant of those commands but I think it’s become clear that I listened.

Now it’s too late. Yearning tugs and squeezes in my gut. She was someone. Someone I want to know. Someone I want to be like. How did I never see it? What happened between this photograph and my memories? How do things change so much? Nausea creeps over me sending shivers down my shoulders and neck. I don’t think I’ll ever know—I’m not sure if there’s a way to know—but I have to try.

Muffled from the distance, the front door slams shut.

“I wonder if mom is back?”

“I don’t know, let’s go see,” I say, my voice fluttering.

“Should we bring the articles down to show everyone else?” Gette asks unaware of the anguish roiling inside me. My impulse is to say yes, to bring them down in my arms, throw them on the table, and demand answers. What does this mean? How do they not know these things about my mother—about the past? But I’m also afraid. Afraid of those answers and where they might lead. I hesitate for a moment then look Gette in the eye.

“Let’s leave them here for now. Once everything settles down maybe we’ll have time to bring your parents up here and they can tell us all about it.”

“Okay,” she says her face beaming. Gette jumps up and runs back toward the stairwell. I get up slowly. I look down at the article in my hand, fold it once, then again; I fold in until it’s a tiny square and all the strength in the universe couldn’t help me fold it any smaller. I unzip my jumpsuit a little and put the article into the inside pocket next to the storage sphere. Compartmentalized, I zip up the jumpsuit and head downstairs.

Cornelia hasn’t returned but Charles and Victor are standing in the kitchen.

“Oh, there you are,” Charles says stepping forward to rub his hands through Gette’s hair. “We were just about to start looking for you. Victor and I found the emergency kit hidden in the barn. Some of it was spoiled but I think we have enough food for tonight.”

“Oxtail soup and broth,” says Victor. He’s not wearing his mask so the disgust dripping from the corners of his lips is plain to see. Charles reaches into the box Victor is carrying, grabs the crusty tin cans, then sets about brushing the rust off the top of them. Cleaned, he sets them down on the kitchen counter. Victor makes short work of opening them with an old-style can opener that zips through the lids in a rocking motion like a scythe through grain. Charles dumps the first open yellow-brown can into a bowl. The contents have separated. Sickly orange liquid rests on the top. Dark brown mush sinks to the bottom and a murky brown something fills the middle. Victor audibly gags.

“Now I really don’t want to eat it.”

“It’s still well within its expiration date. See here,” Charles stabs a massive finger at the peeling yellow label. “Look, it says right here. ‘Contents may separate. Safe until printed date.’ I don’t much like the look of it either Victor but we gotta eat something—you have to keep your strength up.” He turns his attention away from Victor down to Gette. “Here darling, let me get you a bowl.”

Gette pulls off her mask and walks toward her father. Dark rings around her eyes stand out on her young face. She’s far more fatigued than she’s letting on.

“Looks like bathwater papa, I’m not sure I can eat it.” Holding the bowl of soup, Charles kneels in front of Gette.

“I know darling. This isn’t what I want for you, but you gotta eat something.” Gette forces a smile and takes the bowl from Charles. She sets it on the table then pulls out a chair and sits down. Charles pours bowls for the rest of us. Taking them, we follow Gette to the table. Looking around at everyone, I see that I’m the only one still wearing my mask. Watching the others die that way has really stuck with me and I’m now—more than ever—afraid to take my mask off. But I can see that they’re alright, they’re not dying. I exhale sharply and pull off my mask. The stagnant odor of the house hits me for the first time—dust, decay, neglect.

Spoon in hand, I dip into the broth. The dark mush swirls underneath while orange fatty liquids dance around on the surface. Normally I just wouldn’t eat this. I’d push it aside, throw it away, but the nagging, chewing, overwhelming hunger in my stomach begs me to eat it. I fill the spoon and raise it to my mouth. Despite the hunger, my eyes can’t seem to get over the fact that it looks like dog food. The soup hits my tongue and I’m relieved. It’s not that bad; meaty with a hint of mushroom. There is an unpleasant sourness to it but in my current state of hunger it almost adds something—excitement. I open my eyes and look down at the broth and I’m pleased to discover that it no longer looks repulsive. I dig in. Spoon after spoon, I devour it all. Gette looks at me from across the table and hesitantly sips a tiny bit from her spoon. Her eyes light up and she too digs in. Charles smiles and does the same taking big heaping spoonfuls. Victor still looks unconvinced but dips his spoon in. He holds his nose and clenches his eyes tight. Smacking his lips, he examines the broth looking for any excuse not to eat it. He opens his eyes and nods his head a little.

“Okay, I guess it’s not that bad. But it still looks awful!” We all chuckle.

“I won’t disagree with you there,” Charles says smiling.

We share a few minutes together in silence listening to the sounds of metal spoons against clay bowls—slurps and sloshes—enjoying the first meal we’ve had in days.

Having licked all our bowls clean, we sit back and hold our stomachs. Even a little amount of soup seems to be overwhelming. Full, I feel like taking a nap. Slipping away into sleep and savoring this moment. Charles has already done so. Leaned back in his wooden chair his arms crossed over his chest, he sleeps with only the occasional snore rattling his calm. Gette has passed out on the table her head buried in her arms. Her little chest rising and falling rhythmically. Victor sits awake, however. He looks at me intently—his eyes studying my face. It’s strange. I’ve only just met Victor, yet I feel so comfortable in his presence. It must be everything we’ve witnessed and seen together, but he feels familiar like a brother I never had. Though I can’t shake that he’s looking at me more than that. Is he looking into my face and seeing more than a sister, more than a friend?

“If you’re looking for answers in my face, I’m sorry to say you’re not going to find any there.” I say shaking Victor out of his trance. He blinks himself alert.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. There is so much running through my head. You think Cornelia can find us help?”

“I hope so. But I’m not sure what kind of help she can find. This place seems to be abandoned. Everyone’s gone to the cities or somewhere else. Somebody still out here, they won’t have much.”

“We have to try, right? We have to ask?”

“Of course we do—because we’re not giving up. We’re working to get out of this mess, to find a way to make it better.”

“But how, how can we make this better?” Victor asks.

“I’m still trying to figure that out.”

“Well let’s hope we figure it out before things get worse” Victor says earnestly.  

I avert my gaze from him and sigh. I know he’s right. How do you make things better when you’re not entirely sure what made them go bad? How can you have a conversation about the masks when there are bombs going off, gunmen in the streets? I just hope Damien’s actions don’t permanently brand us as violent. How can we try to lobby people for peace if they think we started this? I don’t want to think about this right now. We need to think about getting out of here. Finding some stability, food, shelter. We need to find new friends—all the ones we know of are either dead or too far away.

I stand up, push my chair back, then collect the bowls from in front of everyone and drop them into the sink. There’s no running water and I have no intention of washing them but it feels good to do something that makes the world feel orderly, normal. Standing in the kitchen, I look through the window over the sink. The sun is beginning to set—an orange-red glow hangs over the hedgerows. It’s beautiful. I wonder if Mother ever looked at a sunset like this, if she ever saw the world this way, as beautiful? How could she have had another life? A whole life I never knew about? Do I really have a sister? Or am I connecting dots that aren’t there, looking for something, anything, to make this better? Whether it’s true or not, only time will tell. But in the meantime, it’s a nice distraction to think that perhaps Mother was a better person than I have given her credit for. To think that she did fight, that she did try to break free from her prison. I assume so much of people. I assume what I see on the outside is the same on the inside. I know that’s not true for myself, why is it so hard for me to see that in others? Maybe if I had an older sister, someone to help me figure it all out, maybe I’d be a better person. But here I stand at the window looking out on the sunset delving into the what-ifs reminiscing about the past I’ve just created for myself. I don’t even know if it’s true. I’m building this whole future, this whole life, this whole reality from one article and a grainy picture. I always knew something was missing. Spare rooms filled with things to distract from the emptiness they personify. Masks piled high to bury the pain. Maybe I did have a sister. And I think she died.

I look down at the sink, dirty bowls stacked on top of layers of dust.

“Do you really think your sister can help us?” I say turning back to Victor.

“I kept in pretty good touch with her. She has a stable job and some connections inside the bureaucracy. She can help us once we get to Lufthaffen.”

“But how do you make that trip? Isn’t it almost 1,000 miles? I don’t have any money, ID badge, anything. Plus, if that weren’t enough, they’re looking for me—I’m wanted.”

“How do you know your wanted? Surely there’s enough else going that no one is worried about you.”

Victor doesn’t know. Nobody knows. I haven’t told them and I don’t know if I can. I don’t know for sure, but it’s possible the bombings and the violence has overshadowed my actions. Even if that’s true, I’ll still know what I did. I shot those Peace Officers. Their higher-ups would’ve known they were looking for me, and now they know they never returned. I’ve had run-ins with Fowler and she just started this mess. There is no telling what they think I am or if they think I’m working with her.

“Things happened in the apartment. Things I’m wanted for.”

 Victor stares at me intently—his eyes trying to peel back my face and see what I’m hiding.

“Whatever you did, you had to do. You’re here now, that’s all that matters.”

“Did I though?”

I haven’t said it directly but now I think he knows—he knows what I did.

“Everyone runs from Peace Officers that’s normal, it’s fine. Something wrong with that?”

He doesn’t know—he hasn’t connected the dots.

“It’s not like you killed them.”

His words ring in my head. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

“You’re not a murderer, Evelyn. You’re a good person. Besides, they’re probably looking for everyone—everyone is a suspect now.”

I feel sick. I don’t know what he would do if he found out what I did. Or what any of them would do? Would Charles and Cornelia still trust me with their daughter? Would Victor still look at me like he can’t look away? I’m not even sure if they should. Backed into a corner, I lashed out and now I have to live with the consequences of that forever. I saw something in myself that I didn’t want to see. Even now I don’t want to acknowledge that it’s there. A primordial violence, a disregard for others. I feel sometimes that I lack empathy, that I don’t really care who people are—they’re all just ants to me. I know that isn’t true, it is not the whole story. I do care. I want things to be improve.

“We have to figure out a better mode of transportation. We can’t take an ambulance all the way there. How are we going to get past the checkpoints? Say they are looking for me, it doesn’t really matter because I don’t have ID. No matter which way you look at it, that makes me a subversive.”

Victor nods—the wheels in his head turning.

“True,” he says—he says more but the words trail off into muttering.

“Perhaps there’s a way to get fake papers or new papers,” I say, “maybe Cornelia found someone and they can help us out of this mess.”

“I hope so, I really do.”

Feeling the conversation grind to a more-or-less satisfying halt, I move to the living room and slump into the wing-backed chair. I shift myself around for a moment trying to find comfort in the lumpy springs. Victor watches me close my eyes.

                                                              ***

Footsteps on the porch alert me to someone’s presence. Waking up from my nap, I scan the room to see if the others are awake. Their eyes are still closed and they seem fast asleep. Sensing danger, I dart up and move as quietly as I can next to the door. I peek out the window and see Cornelia standing there. She’s wearing her mask. Her hands fidget with her jumpsuit A shadowy figure stands behind her—they’re moving toward the door. My heart pounds. To my left is a coffee table, I crouch behind it and peer around the edge of the door. The porch creaks as the shadowy figure’s feet rest upon the threshold. The door opens with a groan—the day’s last rays of light glint off the middle of the barrel. The gun peeking into the room is a short antique weapon. An old gaunt hand grasps its handle. I don’t know what to do. Should I rush for the door? Do I run? I hesitate—frozen.

It’s too late, she enters the room.

An elderly woman—filling only half the doorway—stands hunched and gray. Her mask is old and tattered at the edges. Her skeleton-like fingers bulge under the stress of grasping the pistol. Startled, I stand up. My shoulder catches the underside of the coffee table with a bang. The unexpected movement and noise sends the woman wheeling around toward me—the pistol leveled at my chest.

“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” I scream, my hands darting into the air. I hear rustling and creaks—Charles, Gette, and Victor must be waking up.

“Girl! I almost shot you. You shouldn’t scare an old lady with a gun. Now come on over here to the table and sit down.”

I obey her commands and move to the table with cautious steps careful to keep my hands raised where she can see them. Charles stands up and broadens his shoulders, the woman turns the pistol to him.

“You too. Get over to the table. Come on—the little girl and the boy too.” The three of them obey raising their arms in surrender and head over to the table. Gette whimpers. Cornelia enters the foyer and places her hand on the woman’s shoulder.

“See? It’s all as I’ve said. Now, please put the pistol down.”

The woman keeps the pistol aimed at Charles and thinks for a long second. She shifts her weight while she’s thinking—the floors squeaking under her. She uncocks the pistol with a loud click and returns it to the oversized pocket on her overcoat. A shutter of relief washes over me—I can hear us all sigh at the same time.

“Thank you,” Cornelia says.

The woman remains standing in the door. Cornelia moves out from behind her to stand by Charles. She places her hand on Gette’s shoulder. Gette reaches up and grasps her mother’s hands.

“This isn’t normally how I introduce myself,” the woman looks down at the pistol in her pocket, “but the world’s a hornet’s nest right now and you can’t be too careful. I’m Colleen Sheffield,” she tips her head in a rural curtsey. “Cornelia filled me in about your predicament. Can’t believe Bernard is gone, he was a good man. I’m not really sure though—what do you people want of me? I don’t think I can help you that much.”

I clear my throat to speak and shake loose the bundle of nerves threatening to choke me.

“Mrs. Sheffield, we need help getting to Lufthaffen.”

Colleen laughs.

“I don’t know what you expect me to do,” she shrugs her shoulders and flips over her hands revealing empty palms. “I’m trapped here just the same as you. If I could get outta here I would.”

“We understand, but surely there is something you can do for us? Do you know anyone that might help us? You don’t have to do anything yourself, just point us in the right direction.”

“Your strong-willed. I like that. It will serve you well for what’s to come.” She chews a wad of something bulging out of her bottom lip. “I can’t really help you but I might be able to point you in the direction of someone who can.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Maurice Reinhardt. He runs the plantation north of town. He’s wealthy and he has connections. If anyone can get you out of here and get you on the road to Lufthaffen it’s him.”

“Reinhardt? As in Reinhardt Agriculture?” Says Charles.

“Yes, those Reinhardt’s.”

Charles stirs in his chair.

“I don’t trust those people. I saw what they did to the Herrington’s and the other farmers. We have to find help somewhere else.”

“I told you, I can’t really help you. I don’t trust the Reinhardt’s either they’re bad people always have been always will be. And Maurice especially so,” she leans forward spitting a hearty glob of spit onto the floor. The desiccated floorboards pull in the moisture in an instant turning the spit into a little pool of mud. She sniffs loudly, turning her face up in disgust, then drops her eyes down in defeat. “But I don’t know where else you can turn. It’s just me and the few other families still clinging onto the dirt we still own.”

“So, what happened to everyone else,” says Charles, “where have all of the farmers gone?”

“They work for Reinhardt now. When the drought hit and the crops died, we were all going broke. He lent his money on the condition that the farmers come work for him on the plantation. Thousands of them are living there now—in dorms—working to pay off debts they can never repay. The only thing I can think of is doing some leg work for him. Maybe it’ll get you papers or maybe it’ll buy you safe passage to Lufthaffen.”

“Are you insane? You’d put my daughter to work in that terrible place? To beg for help from that foul man? I’d rather take my chances on the road in the ambulance.”

“Look here sonny, I don’t like that option either—you don’t see me working on his plantation—but it’s the only one I see, and the only thing I can suggest. I’ve got nothing but dirt here, he at least has some money and maybe a way out.”

“I think she’s right Charles, what option do we have? We can’t keep driving around in the ambulance. There’s no way we would make it past 1,000 miles of roadblocks without some help, without some paperwork,” Cornelia says.

“You’re right. I know you’re right, but there has to be some other way. You said it yourself he doesn’t make debts people can repay. You work for that man until you die. I for one don’t intend to die on some man’s plantation.”

“So we just try our luck on the road?” I say.

“Yes. I think we have to take our chances driving at night, go slow, be cautious.”

“We only just made it here. Things aren’t gonna get better Charles, things are going to get worse,” Cornelia says pulling Gette tight into her bosom.

“I’ll go. I’ll go to the plantation, and I’ll figure out a way to get us papers. The rest of you can stay with Mrs. Sheffield while I figure it out,” I say.

Colleen raises her hands in protest. “I never agreed to that. I can’t feed that many people,” she says taking a step toward the door.

“Absolutely not, Evelyn. We need to stick together, we can only get through this if we stick together,” Cornelia says. She extends her hand toward me. I grasp it and look into her eyes. I see concern there—desperation. She doesn’t like this plan either but what other choice is there?

“We go to the plantation, we get our paperwork, and we get the hell out of here. We stick together—we’ll figure it out,” says Victor.

I’ve jumped at the first exit every time. I see an opening and I go for it. Taking the first path available has gotten me here, but it’s been a bumpy road and I regret more than a few decisions. Maybe we should heed her advice. Reinhardt sounds like a terrible person who exploits his power for his purposes—and his purposes only. 

“No way,” I say.

Victor looks at me as though I stabbed him, “but you just—”

I cut him off, “If Reinhardt is only half as bad as you’ve made him out to be,” I say aiming my words at Colleen, “then we can’t take that option. There is no telling if he would help us or turn us over to Peace Officers! No, Charles is right. We need to take to the roads. If we stick to the side roads, we could make it to Lufthaffen. It’s all unknown, but I don’t think jumping in with Reinhardt is our best move right now. We’ll get boxed in, and I think staying mobile is the best thing we can do right now.”

Cornelia squeezes my hand, “I’m not thrilled with it. But maybe you and Charles are onto something. Gette and I are with you.” Gette clenches her jaw in resolve and throws me a curt nod. Cornelia runs her fingers through Gette’s hair and pats her back. Victor sighs, shaking his head in defeat.

“Can you help us out with the map Mrs. Sheffield? Point us in the right direction?” I say, trying to carry the conversation forward into action.

Colleen stares me down for, spits out a glob of mucus through the front door onto the porch, then pulls out a chair from the table.

“Get your map and I’ll set you straight.”