She thought she detected a laugh go through his shoulders as he read her note. He scribbled an answer on the same piece of paper. Lynn didn’t dare venture out until morning. The fog that had formed was becoming thick, and she might get turned around in the night. She pulled the quilt tighter around her shoulders. There was a chill in the air, enough that she gathered up her rifle and descended the antennae.
A night’s uninterrupted rest would be welcome. If she couldn’t see, they couldn’t either. Lynn settled into her cot, oblivious to the complete darkness of the basement. When Mother had been alive, they would light the oil lamps and stay awake to talk, planning the next day’s activities. Lynn needed no light to lie alone, wondering what the note waiting at the rock would say.
Lynn could live on her own. The daily duties of survival were well within her capabilities, but she couldn’t defend herself constantly. The pond was foremost in her mind, and she couldn’t keep a watch over it while cutting wood in the fencerow. Trips to the forest for larger loads of firewood were out of the question, as was any foraging of neighboring houses for the little things she would inevitably need.
Stebbs suffered the opposite problem; his daily chores were a trial because of his lame leg. They would benefit each other; he could watch the pond while she cut wood, and she would give him half in return. Water she would not part with. It seemed Stebbs wasn’t in need of any, even though she never saw him hauling water to his shack from some unknown source.
Her ankle was taking weight more easily, though she still wore the makeshift brace under her boot. She was able to walk, but the stench of the coyotes choked her throat nearly shut as she made her way out to the boulder. Her shirt was tucked over her nose and she had her nostrils pinched shut through it by the time she opened the note. It read:
There are people at the stream.
She stared at it. She’d been expecting an offer of help, questions about Mother, or the burning of her outbuilding. Instead it was a statement so obvious as to be nearly insulting. She was chewing on the end of the pen that she had brought, debating on an appropriate response when the man stood up from behind the boulder.
Lynn’s instincts were too finely honed to allow for screaming. The rifle that had been lashed across her back snapped to the front so quickly that she would find a burn between her shoulder blades from the strap that evening.
He looked much different than she remembered. Years of watching Stebbs through the binoculars had not prepared Lynn for the reality of his person, the fine lines around his mouth, the brightness of his eyes, or the silver-streaked hair that peeked out from underneath his hat. She backpedaled, even though his arms were in the air and he had no weapon. The closeness of anyone other than Mother was so alien to Lynn that she had to smother the need to run away from his strangeness.
“Lynn,” he said calmly, “it’s all right.”
She had never heard her name spoken by a man before. Even when he’d recuperated at their house, Mother had not allowed Lynn to be near him. But his voice brought long-dead memories to the surface, the pleasant sound of his tones seeping through the floorboards above her head, murmured conversations not meant for her ears. His voice hadn’t changed, but there was a calming note to it now, which her addled brain had a difficult time placing.
There was a brief time as a child when a fever put Lynn in her cot for a week, and Mother’s entire demeanor changed. She had barely ventured to the roof, even neglecting to collect water as the fever spiked. The lines around her eyes, harsh from years of squinting into the sun, had softened during those few days in the basement. And her voice changed. The factual, clipped manner of her speech had dropped, to be replaced by a softer, more comforting tone.
Lynn recognized the same elements in Stebbs’ voice. Her muscles relaxed slightly and she brought the barrel of the gun down, but ready to spring back to his center mass if necessary. Her throat, still constricted from the smell of rot, tightened further as she wondered what to say. Mother was the only person she could remember ever speaking to.
“Why’d you surprise me like that?” Lynn asked.
“I’m sorry.” He came around to the front of the rock and sat on it, pulling his hat off his head and running his hands through his hair. “Didn’t think you’d come if you saw me here, and I didn’t want to waste days writin’ if we could have a talk.”
“Uh-huh?”
He reached for his inner jacket pocket, and Lynn’s rifle snapped upward. “Whoa,” he said in the same calming voice. “Just getting my hankie.” She nodded for him to go ahead and he did so, slowly, keeping an eye on her trigger finger. The red handkerchief appeared and Lynn resisted the urge to reach out and touch it.