The world was still dark when Emma opened her eyes, so much so that she wondered whether she had slept right through the following day. Further surprising her was the sight of a grown man and a girl around her age sleeping on her bedroom floor. Both looked peaceful enough, their chests rising and falling as they pulled in breath and pushed it out, but the man had a bandage wrapped around his leg. The fabric was saturated with crimson blood and she could smell the stench of sweat and metal in the air. She wrinkled her nose at it.

She looked out the window in her bedroom, curious as to why the sun hadn’t risen. Her mother often said she was the second earliest riser (the first of course being Mom herself); long, golden rays would shoot through the panes of glass and illuminate her bed, indicating not just that it was time to get up, but also that it was the start of a new day. A fresh start, as her father would always say. She never really understood the importance of each day being fresh, but she tried her best to rise with as much of a smile she could muster, even on the days where she felt particularly tired and had to sneak a cup of Dad’s coffee.

That morning, there was no golden light, nor did she feel ready for the day ahead. Through her window, she could see bits of light attempting to break through the black clouds that were rolling over their house. Every now and then the puffy blackness would split apart like bits of cotton and release a brilliant yellow sheen, only for the clouds to pull together and morph into rolling blackness again.

Her bedroom door was cracked. Dad was whispering outside of it, his husky voice hushed. Mom was responding to him, but her voice was indistinct and impossible to understand. Dad had always had the rougher voice, only outmatched by Grandpa, but his voice wasn’t as husky as it was sick – an important difference.

Taking great care, Emma placed the tips of her toes on the floor. After years in the same bedroom, she knew exactly which floorboards squeaked and which ones didn’t. After she used her toes to anchor her to a spot, she placed the rest of her foot down. The other foot followed suit, and she lifted herself out of bed while creeping toward the door. She noted how strange it felt to act like a criminal in her own room, next to her own bed. When she reached the door, she turned to look back at the bunk bed behind her. John’s bunk was empty, his covers a disheveled mess.

When she opened the door, she was surprised to see John already awake and helping Dad. He spent his mornings with his head underneath his pillow, trying to steal the last bits of sleep that he could. Dad would have to drag him out of his bunk to help with farm chores, and he put up a hell of a protest as often as he could. Yet, there he was, sweeping the floor while Dad spoke in his hushed tone. In the distance, through the doorway to the kitchen, she could see her mother working on breakfast. While rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Emma walked past her brother and father and entered the kitchen.

“Sleep well?” Mom asked. She had her back turned to her, yet somehow she always knew when Emma was around.

“Yeah,” Emma said. “Didn’t dream much, though.”

“Some nights that’s fo’ the best,” Mom said. “Allows your brain some rest for a change. You mind helpin’ me with breakfast?”

Emma moved to her mother’s side. Above her, rain fell on the rooftop with ferocious power. The storm didn’t sound like it was anywhere near finished. In fact, it sounded like it was getting more powerful with each passing hour. Mom was already in rationing mode, too – their breakfast was a single apple per person, cut up into slices for easier eating. Mom handed her a knife and three apples, and Emma got to work cutting them up. Juice rain down her hand as the knife sliced through the red skin, making a satisfying shkkkk sound as it did. Mom had a specific pattern that she liked to use: she would cut them in half and then cut around the core. It would make thin wedges, which Dad always muttered about because he was, as he put it, a thick wedge kind of man, but Mom said that her method yielded more wedges in total. Dad never seemed to argue with that.

Once the apples were cut, she took the pile of discarded cores from Mom’s side and picked up her cores as well. She was almost at her front door to throw them out into the yard, as she did whenever they had food scraps, but Dad stopped her, reaching out and grabbing her shoulder. There was an odd fire in his eye, something that approached fear (though she had never really seen her father fearful before).

“Not today,” he said. “You just toss ‘em in the kitchen fo’ now. Once the storm passes we’ll open up the door and throw ‘em to the land like usual.”

Emma shrugged and returned to the kitchen. She placed the cores on the counter, which earned her a raised eyebrow from Mom.

“Dad said not to throw ‘em out yet,” she said.

Mary didn’t argue with her, but she gathered the scraps and placed them in the furthest, right corner of the counter. As out of the way as they could possibly be. Then she gathered up the apple wedges and brought them out to the kitchen.

“Go get our guests,” Mom said. “Tell ‘em breakfast is ready.”

When she woke the man and the girl, both gave her a wild, staring glance. It was a more intense version of the look her father had given her.

“Sorry t’ bother you,” Emma said. “My Mom told me t’ tell you that breakfast is ready. Not much unfortunately, but still somethin’.”

“Something’s better than nothing,” the man said. He spoke with a slight accent, but his English was perfect. She glanced at the girl, who was staring at her with apprehension clouding her countenance. Emma nodded politely and closed the door behind her as she left.

Breakfast was silent, though occasionally Dad would make small talk. Uncle Matthew’s face was bright red and splotchy, and his nose was crooked. Purple marks had spawned around the bridge, and he glowered every time Dad spoke. She had clearly missed something while she was asleep.

“You bring anythin’ to Pa?” Uncle Matthew asked once breakfast was finished. The man, whose named she learned was Luis, and his daughter had returned to her bedroom, while she was helping Mom gather the scraps from the table.

“No,” Dad said. “He told me t’ leave him alone the last time I saw him, and I intend t’ do jus’ that.”

“Leavin’ him to die, more like,” Uncle Matthew muttered.

“You got somethin’ you want t’ say t’ me?” her father asked, raising his voice a bit. Even with the sound of the wind and rain, his voice boomed off the wooden walls of their home. He had never used that voice with her, and only one time – when John had come home blind drunk at the age of thirteen – with her brother.

“Jackson, don’t,” Mom warned, though she glared at Uncle Matthew, too. The stranger, whose name she had never learned, was still sitting at the table, watching the exchange.

“Whatever,” Uncle Matthew spat and stood from the table. The stranger followed suit, leaving just Dad at the table. Bags were drooping under his eyes. Visible fatigue.

“Emma, it’s not polite to stare,” Mom said from across the table. Emma pulled herself out of her funk and gathered the rest of the scraps before following Mom back into the kitchen to dispose of them.

“Mom,” she asked as she placed the scraps near the cores she had disposed of earlier.

“Yes, honey?”

“Why’s there no sun out? I’ve never seen clouds like that befo’.”

She had tried to hide her fear for as long as she could, but the lack of yellow light throughout the day, and the constant wet, slashing rain and wind was setting her nerves on edge. Every time she thought about the river, and the day she and John had looked down at its disturbed, violent surface, she wondered whether it had the power to rise up and wash them all out of house and home. Of course, that was God’s decision and if God decided to raise another flood to rid the world of cruelty, who was she to question His authority? But sometimes, mostly when her father couldn’t hear her, she did.

“I don’t know,” Mom said. “Must just be because o’ how thick the clouds are.”

“Have you ever seen clouds like this before?”

Mom shook her head. “I seen storms that were real bad. I even seen clouds that were real thick. But nothin’ like this. This is…unique.”

“What does unique mean?’

“It’s like, when somethin’s strange and doesn’t happen often,” Mom said. “Like when you see somethin’ in town you never seen before.”

“Do you think the storm’ll ever end?”

“O’ course it will,” Mom said. “All storms end.”

That gave her a small amount of comfort, both because her mother’s tone was always comforting, and because she knew those words were true. No storm lasted forever. Not even God’s storm. 40 days and 40 nights, and the world still managed to survive. Compared to what Noah went through, this storm was nothing at all.

“Why don’t you go make sure our guests are doin’ okay,” Mom said. “I can take care o’ the kitchen right now.”

Emma acquiesced and left the kitchen. She still hadn’t changed out of her nightgown, but Mom hadn’t yelled at her about it, so she assumed it was okay. As she walked through the living room, she saw John talking with Dad and looking out the back window. They were probably talking about crops or something. None of that talk ever interested her. She was good at tending field (perhaps even more attentive to weeding than John himself, though her brother always vehemently denied it whenever she brought it up), but it wasn’t ever what she was interested in. She liked books more than she liked farming. When she brought this up to her parents, her mother had smiled and told her about Jane Austen, and George Eliot, and Elizabeth Brontë. She had even gone out and bought her some books so she could spend her free time reading. Dad had been sad. When she had asked him why he was sad, he said it was because she reminded him of Grandma. She had never met her grandmother, but her Dad’s face always lit up when he talked about her. With exception to that instance, of course.

As Emma approached her bedroom door, she noticed the sound of someone crying. It was the little girl Luis was with, as her sobs were more high-pitched than she expected Luis’s to be. When she opened the door, she noticed that her inference was correct.

Luis was rubbing the girl’s back as she sobbed, her tears falling from her eyes to the wood floor in a steady stream.

“Is everything okay?” she asked. She didn’t want to be a nudge. Dad had always warned her not to get in other people’s business, especially if it seemed like it was a private moment, but Mom had told her to check up on their guests.

“Yeah,” Luis said.

“I’m sorry,” Emma said, stumbling over her own words. “My Mom just told me to check up on ya since you’re our guests an’ all, but I didn’t mean to stumble on a private moment.”

“It’s okay,” Luis said. He gestured for her to come in. The girl was wiping her eyes, and her sobs had subsided. “This is my daughter, Rose. We had a tough night last night, and it’s just hitting us right now.”

“What happened?” She paused and realized how forward her question was. Think before you speak! she thought. “I’m sorry, you don’ have to say nothin’ if you don’t want to.”

Luis smiled. “It’s okay,” he said. “I don’t quite know what happened if I’m being honest. Nor does Rose, I think. We got chased out of our home in the middle of the storm. Your home was the first place we stopped. Thank the Lord that your father opened the door when he did. I was hurt, and Rose was scared. Who could tell what would have happened if he hadn’t done so.”

“Yeah, Dad’s pretty awesome,” Emma said. “You can’t see it now ‘cause o’ the storm an; all, but he tends a mean farm! He’s real good. Sometimes I’ll sit out and watch him plant or weed. Mom says he’s got a green thumb, but I think it’s more than that.”

“I’ve seen your father’s farm,” Luis said. He flashed a bright smile. “It’s quite impressive. I need to ask him some advice about keeping plants alive. I never got good at it, myself. My late wife knew what she was doing, but since she passed I haven’t been able to keep up her work.”

“I’m sorry to hear ‘bout that,” Emma said. She turned her look to Rose, who was eyeing her the same way she had before, though she seemed less concerned than she had been when Emma had woken them that morning for breakfast. She extended a hand, following the pleasantries Dad had taught her. “I’m Emma,” she said.

Rose took her hand but said nothing in return. When Emma produced a confused visage, Luis said, “She doesn’t speak much.”

“That’s okay,” Emma said. “I understand. Sometimes I don’ feel like speakin’ either. Sometimes I’ll sit in the corner with a book and be real quiet, like a mouse, for hours on end. My brother says I’m crazy, spendin’ so much time lookin’ at letters on paper, but I enjoy it.”

“You’re very kind,” Luis said. “I can see you get it from your parents.”

“Thank you,” Emma said. She offered him a wide grin. “My folks always said you gotta treat folks like they treat you. But I figure a little extra kindness can’t hurt.”

“You’re a rare breed in the world,” Luis said. “Lots o’ folks succumb to sadness and fear.”

“Sounds like Uncle Matthew,” Emma said.

Luis raised an eyebrow, though Emma could tell, thanks to the glint in his eye, that he knew what she was talking about.

“Moms says that Uncle Matthew is so mean because he’s so scared, and I guess I understand that.”

“Yeah, that would make sense,” Luis said. “Though some folks just hate because they like hating. We’ve seen our fair share of those people. I don’t mean to be too forward, but is your Uncle Matthew…safe?”

Emma thought about the question long and hard. Her instincts said yes, but she remembered the bulge in the back of his waistband the day the storm started. She thought it looked like a revolver, which was odd because she knew where he kept his revolver – hanging from his bandolier belt, in its holster, next to his bed roll.

“I think so,” Emma said. “He and my Dad fight somethin’ fierce whenever they get the chance, but I think that’s just family. My Dad and Grandpa fight all the time, too. But at the end o’ the day, he’d protect anyone in this house just as much as he’d defend himself.”

Luis’s eyes shined at her answer. “That’s nice to hear,” he said.

“I’ve intruded on your privacy long enough,” Emma said. “I’m truly sorry I did.”

“It’s no trouble,” Luis said. Even Rose’s visage seemed to have brightened, and her lips had lifted into a small smile.

“If you need anythin’ at all, you only need to ask m’ Mom or Dad. Either o’ them can get you what you want.” She looked back at the closed door behind her and then leaned in. “If y’ ask nicely I’m sure they’d even kick ya some extra rations.”

“That’s not necessary,” Luis said. “I appreciate it, though.”

“O’ course,” Emma said.

She stood and looked out the bedroom window. Outside, the wind was still blowing and rainwater was slicing through the air with the agility of thin pieces of glass. She bid Luis and Rose goodbye before leaving the room and closing the door behind her. As she left, she heard Luis begin to sing to Rose. The words were in a different language so she couldn’t understand it, but the melody sounded familiar.

Her father was still standing by the back window looking out. His hands were in his trousers’ pockets, but his face was stern and carved with concern. He turned to look at her as she approached, and his look seemed to brighten when he did.

“How’s m’ little angel doin?” he asked.

“Fine,” she said. “Just spoke with Luis and Rose. They’re real nice.”

“They are, aren’t they?” Dad said. “When they arrived last night, I offered them whatever they wanted, and they just wanted some bandages for Luis’s wounds and a place to sleep.”

“They asked about Uncle Matthew,” Emma said, dropping her voice so only her father could hear her. “Did somethin’ happen last night?”

“Nothin’ y’ need to worry yourself about,” Dad said. “Just some normal fightin’, like usual.”

“About Luis and Rose?’

“Yeah, about them,” Dad said.

That was one of many things Emma appreciated about her father. He never walked around her question or tried to give her fake answers – he was always honest and upfront with her.

“What was he mad about?”

“Well, your Uncle Matthew thinks that I shouldn’t have let them into the house on account o’ our rations. I’m of the mind that when someone comes to your door bleedin’ and beggin’ for help, you don’t turn ‘em away. That’s not the Christian thing to do.”

“He asked if Uncle Matthew was dangerous,” Emma said.

“What’d you tell him?”

“I said no.”

Her father nodded. “I think that’s the right answer.”

“You think?”

“Uncle Matthew is confused and sad. We’ve told you that a bunch o’ times. But if someone ever threatened this family or tried to break us up, I think he’d be on our side.”

Emma looked out the window and let silence regain its control over the house, occasionally permeated by Uncle Matthew humming somewhere in the house, or her mother gathering plates to be set for dinner.

That was when she noticed something strange.

It was difficult to see through the dark skies and the slashing rain, but she could make out some of the trees that surrounded the farm behind their house. Their bark was slick with rainwater, and littered around the trunks were thin twigs and thick branches that had broken off during the storm. Then, a brilliant bolt of orange-yellow burst through the sky as the clouds pulled apart. In the sudden light, she swore she saw a thin hand grasping the trunk of the tree. Each finger ended in sharp claws, and the skin was pulled tight against the bone, so much so that it didn’t even look like skin.

“Did you see that?” she asked as the light disappeared and the clouds pushed back into each other. Darkness reigned over the farmland.

“See what?” Dad asked. He pulled his hands from his pockets and cupped them around his eyes, looking through the window.

“I don’t know,” Emma said. “I swore I saw something outside. A hand. It looked like it had claws on the end of it.”

When she looked up at her father, expecting his response, she saw a flash of terror skitter through his visage. Then it disappeared, and his calm demeanor returned. He smiled and put his arm around her shoulder.

“I’m sure it was nothin’,” he said. “Storms make you see strange things. Must’ve been a trick o’ the light.”

Emma nodded, comforted by her father’s presence. Still, something lingered in the back of her mind. It was the same sneaking suspicion she got when she started thinking about Bible stories in-depth, like she did with the books Mom bought her.

Something didn’t make sense.

Her father was hiding something.

Something was wrong.

Next Chapter: Matthew