“Okay. Yes. Okay.”
She waits. The air is still, calm. Nothing happens. Then she hears the click of the door. She steps forward quickly. Hands reach out and pull her in. The door slams shut behind her.
“Now wait,” a woman says. “We need to feel around. We need to know you’ve come in alone.”
Malorie stands with her eyes closed and listens. It sounds like they are feeling along the walls with broomsticks. More than one pair of hands touch her shoulders, her neck, her legs. Someone is behind her now. She hears fingers upon the closed door.
“All right,” a man says. “We’re okay.”
When Malorie opens her eyes, she sees five people standing in a line before her. Shoulder to shoulder, they fill the foyer. She stares at them. They stare at her. One of them wears a helmet of some kind. His arms are covered in what looks like cotton balls and tape. Pens, pencils, and more sharp objects project from the tape like a child’s version of medieval weaponry. Two of them hold broomsticks.
“Hello,” this man says. “My name is Tom. You understand of course why we answer the door like this. Anything could slip in with you.”
Despite the helmet, Malorie sees Tom has blondish brown hair. His features are strong. His blue eyes flare with intelligence. He’s not much taller than Malorie. Unshaven, his stubble is almost red.
“I understand,” Malorie says.
“Westcourt,” Tom says, stepping toward her. “That’s a real drive. What you did was extremely brave. Why don’t you sit down, so we can talk about what you saw along the way?”
Malorie nods but she does not move. She is clutching her suitcase so tight that her knuckles are white and hurt. A taller, bigger man approaches her.
“Here,” he says, “let me take that for you.”
“Thank you.”
“My name is Jules. I’ve been here for two months. Most of us have. Tom and Don arrived a little earlier.”
Jules’s short dark hair looks dirty. Like he’s been working outside. He appears kind.
Malorie looks at the housemates from face to face. There is one woman and four men.
“I’m Don,” Don says. He, too, has dark hair. A little longer. He wears black pants, a purple button-down shirt rolled up to the elbows. He looks older than Malorie, twenty-seven, twenty-eight. “You scared the hell out of us. Nobody’s knocked on that door for weeks now.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s no worry,” the fourth man says. “We all did what you did. I’m Felix.”
Felix looks tired. Malorie thinks he looks young. Twenty-one, twenty-two. His long nose and bushy brown hair make him look almost cartoonish. He is tall, like Jules, but thinner.
“And I’m Cheryl,” the woman says, extending her hand. Malorie shakes it.
Cheryl’s expression is less welcoming than Tom’s and Felix’s. Her brown hair hides some of her face. She is wearing a tank top. She, too, looks like she’s been working.
“Jules, will you help me get this thing off?” Tom says. He is trying to remove his helmet, but the makeshift body armor is getting in the way. Jules helps him.
With the helmet off, Malorie gets a better look at him. His sandy blond hair is messy above his fair face. The suggestion of freckles gives him color. His beard is barely more than stubble, but his mustache is more pronounced. His plaid button-down shirt and brown slacks remind Malorie of a teacher she once had.
Seeing him for the first time, she hardly realizes he is looking at her belly.
“I don’t mean any offense, but are you pregnant?”
“Yes,” she says weakly, frightened that this will be a burden.
“Oh fuck,” Cheryl says. “You have to be kidding me.”
“Cheryl,” Tom says, “you’re gonna scare her.”
“Look, Malorie, was it?” Cheryl says. “I’m not trying to come off as mean when I say this, but bringing a pregnant woman into this house is a real responsibility.”
Malorie is quiet. She looks from face to face, noting the expressions they make. They seem to be studying her. Deciding whether or not they are up to the task of housing someone who will eventually give birth. It suddenly strikes Malorie that she hadn’t thought of it in these terms. On the drive over, she didn’t think that this was where she might deliver her baby.
The tears are coming.
Cheryl shakes her head and, relenting, steps to her.
“My God,” she says. “Come here.”
“I wasn’t always alone,” Malorie says. “My sister, Shannon, was with me. She’s dead now. I left her.”
She is crying now. Through her blurred vision she sees the four men are watching her. They look compassionate. Instantly, Malorie recognizes they’re all grieving in their own ways.
“Come on,” Tom says. “Let’s show you the house. You can use the bedroom at the top of the stairs. I’ll sleep down here.”