It was the only element of the outside world that had ever spoken of hope; a flash of red in the woods that had assured her they were not the only people left. Stebbs was proof that not everyone would attack them for the sake of drinkable water while they slept. For sixteen years, that splash of color had been her only proof of decency in the world.
Up close, details sprang out at her. The hankie wasn’t solid red, but decorated with a black-and-white-paisley pattern. One edge was frayed away, and she could see awkward stitches in the splitting, brittle fabric where he had tried to prevent it from unraveling.
She’d seen many exactly like it, in the farmhouses she raided across the countryside. In one house, there’d been an entire drawer filled with red like his, and also navy blue ones. No doubt he’d come across them too, yet he stuck stubbornly to this one, with its patched holes and dangling strands. The handkerchief—familiar and yet foreign—drove a spike of emotion through her heart so unexpected her legs buckled underneath and she crumbled to the ground.
“I shot her.” The words tore from her throat, a confession she’d not made aloud even in the solitude of the basement. “I killed Mother.”
He was beside her in a second, strong hands on each of her shoulders. His touch was not the shock she had expected. Her skin did not recoil instantly, though years of being warned of the danger posed by all men had been ingrained in her. Instead she leaned forward and put her head on his shoulder, relishing the feel of his jacket against her face.
“I heard shots.” His hand patted her back, awkward but soothing. “What happened?”
“She’s dead.” Lynn pulled back from him, suddenly embarrassed at their closeness. “There were coyotes, and I . . . I missed.”
He nodded that he understood and patted her shoulder with one hand. A flicker of deep emotion passed beneath his eyes, but with a single blink it was gone. He swallowed once, hard, and rose to his feet. She wiped her eyes quickly dry and he did the same. Stebbs cleared his throat and faced east.
“There are people over to the stream,” he said.
“I know,” Lynn clumsily rose, her ankle throbbing inside the tight boot. “Mother thought the Streamers wouldn’t last the winter. They’re burning green wood.”
He grunted his agreement. “No shots from that direction. They don’t have guns. They’ve stayed next to the water even though it’s cold. I think they’ve got someone sick who can’t be moved.”
“Or they’ve got no way of hauling water,” Lynn added, glad to be able to play a familiar game, even if it was with a new player. “So they weren’t smart enough to bring a bucket.”
They shook their heads at the same time. “City people,” they said in unison, and Lynn caught herself smiling, her face creasing into the familiar pattern before she was aware of it.
Lynn jerked her head to the south. “Those men, they’re bad news.” Mother had used that phrase to describe the worst possible things in life: the haze of a hot summer morning that meant storm clouds but no rain; black, fuzzy caterpillars warning that the winter would be especially harsh; the tiny, black droppings of mice scattered in their makeshift basement pantry.
“Bad news for sure,” Stebbs said, shifting his weight off his twisted foot. “I heard them try to take you girls down.”
“Didn’t work,” Lynn said stiffly.
“No,” he said, his voice trailing off in a wave of nuance that Lynn wasn’t practiced enough to understand. The sound of his voice was unfamiliar to her ears, and only Mother’s small actions, mimicked and perfected forms of communication, were translatable.
They stood in awkward silence for a few moments, sharing their dread of the black column of smoke to the south. “I don’t know what to do about them,” Stebbs said, and Lynn nodded her agreement.
“They’ve got a decent-sized group,” she said. “Mother picked quite a few off in the dark, that one night.”
“Did she?” A smile skimmed across Stebbs’ face as he continued to watch the south. He lowered himself slowly to the rock, resting his crooked foot at an odd angle. “What will you do if they come now?”
“Shoot them for as long as I can.”
Stebbs nodded. Lynn’s eyes trailed to his foot, her plan—labor in exchange for his guarding of the pond—seemed insulting with his mangled limb stretched out in front of her. He didn’t appear to be in need of anything, from what she could see. His skin was tan, his color healthy, his arms heavily muscled. Making the offer would only make her seem weak, the deal balanced in her favor.
After a few moments rest, Stebbs propped himself on his good leg, jerking the other one underneath him as he rose. “You gonna be okay, kid?”
Lynn kept her sight trained in the distance. “Yup,” she said dismissively, “I’m fine. Mother didn’t raise any idiots.”
“Didn’t expect she would.” Stebbs motioned toward the smoke of the Streamers’ pitiable fire. “After their smoke’s gone for a few days, I’m going over there, see if they had anything useful.”