Eventually, Victor did stop barking.

Now, in the kitchen, Malorie dunks her hands in a bucket of water. Don and Cheryl went to the well this morning. Each time they knocked to present Felix with a new bucketful, Malorie’s heart leapt, hoping, believing it was Tom.

She brings the water to her face and runs her wet fingers through her matted, sweaty hair.

“Goddamn it,” she says.

She is alone in the kitchen. She is staring at the drapes that cover the room’s one window. She is thinking of all the infinite terrible things that could’ve happened.

Jules killed Tom. He saw a creature and dragged Tom to the river by his hair. He held him underwater till he drowned. Or they both saw something. In a house. They destroyed each other. Their ruined bodies lie on the floor in a stranger’s den. Or only Tom saw something. Jules tried to stop him, but Tom got away. He’s in the woods somewhere. Eating bugs. Eating bark. Eating his own tongue.

“Malorie?”

Malorie jumps as Olympia enters the kitchen.

“What?”

“I’m really worried, Malorie. He said twelve hours.”

“I know,” Malorie says. “We all are.”

Malorie reaches out to put her hand on Olympia’s shoulder and hears Don’s voice from the dining room.

“I’m not convinced we should let them back in.”

Malorie quickly goes to the dining room.

“Come on, Don,” Felix, already in there, says. “How can you mean that?”

“What do you think is going on out there, Felix? You think it’s a nice neighborhood we’re living in? If anybody’s alive out there, they’re not surviving on manners, man. Who’s to say Tom and Jules weren’t kidnapped? They could be hostages right now. And their fucking captors could be asking about our food. Our food.”

“Fuck you, Don,” Felix says. “If they come back, I’m letting them in.”

“If it’s them,” Don says. “And if we’re sure there’s not a gun to Tom’s head on the other side of the door.”

“Will you two shut up!” Cheryl says, passing Malorie and entering the dining room.

“You can’t be serious, Don,” Malorie says.

Don turns toward her.

“You’re damn right I’m serious.”

“You don’t want to let them back in?” Olympia asks, standing beside Malorie now.

“I didn’t say that,” Don snaps. “I’m saying there could be bad people out there. Do you understand that, Olympia? Or is that too complicated for you?”

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Malorie says.

For a second, it looks like Don might come at her.

“I don’t want to have this discussion,” Cheryl says.

“It’s been over twenty-four hours,” Don says chidingly.

“Just . . . go do something else for a minute, will you?” Felix says. “You’re making this worse for everybody.”

“We need to start considering a future without them.”

“It’s been a day,” Felix says.

“Yeah, a day out there.”

Don sits at the piano. He looks like he might relent, for a moment. Then he continues.

“The good news is that our stock will last longer.”

“Don!” Malorie snaps.

“You have a baby coming, Malorie. Don’t you hope to survive?”

“Don, I could kill you,” Cheryl says.

Don gets up from the piano bench. His face is red with anger.

“Tom and Jules aren’t coming back, Cheryl. Accept it. And when you live an extra week because you were able to eat their share of the food and then you were able to eat Victor, too, then maybe you’ll understand that there’s no such thing anymore as hope.”

Cheryl steps toward him. Her hands are in fists. Her face is inches from Don’s.

Victor barks from the living room.

Felix gets between Don and Cheryl. Don shoves him away. As Malorie steps toward them, Felix’s hand is raised.

He is going to strike Don.

He brings his fist back.

There is a knock at the front door.

twenty-one

Malorie is thinking of Don specifically.

“Mommy,” the Boy says, “the blindfold is hurting me.”

“Scoop some water out of the river, carefully,” Malorie says, “and rub it where it hurts. Do not take off your fold.”

Once, after the housemates had finished dinner, Malorie sat alone with Olympia at the dining room table. They were talking about Olympia’s husband. What he was like. His desire to have a child. Don entered the room alone. He didn’t care what Olympia was saying.

“You oughta blind those babies,” he said. “The second they come out.”

It was as if he’d been thinking about it for a long time, then decided to tell them his decision.

He sat down with them at the table and explained himself. As he did, Olympia grew more withdrawn. She thought it was insane. And worse, she thought it was cruel.

But Malorie didn’t think so. A deep part of her understood what Don was saying. Every moment of her pending motherhood would be centered on protecting the eyes of her child. How much more could be done if this worry were taken away? The seriousness Don wore when he said it conveyed more than cruelty to Malorie. It opened the door to a realm of harrowing possibilities, things that might need to be done, actions she might have to take that nobody from the old world could ever be fully prepared to endure. And the suggestion, dark as it was, never entirely vanished from her mind’s eye.

“It’s better, Mommy,” the Boy says.

“Shhh,” Malorie says. “Listen.”

When the children were six months old, she already had them sleeping in their chicken wire cribs. It was night. The world outside the windows and walls was quiet. The house was dark.

In the early days with the babies, Malorie would often listen to them breathe as they slept. What may have been a touching observation for some mothers was a study for Malorie. Did they sound healthy? Were they getting enough nutrients from well water and the breast milk of a mother who hadn’t had a decent meal in a year? Always, their health was on her mind. Their diet. Their hygiene. And their eyes.

You oughta blind those babies the second they come out.

Sitting at the kitchen table in the dark, Malorie understood clearly that the idea did not pose a moral dilemma as much as it presented her with something she wasn’t sure she was physically capable of doing. Looking toward the hall, listening to their tiny exhales, she believed Don’s idea wasn’t a bad one.

Every waking moment is spent protecting them from looking outside. You check the blankets. You check their cribs. They won’t remember these days when they’re older. They won’t remember sight.

The children, she knew, would not be robbed of anything in the new world if they weren’t able to see it to begin with.

Rising, she stepped to the cellar door. Downstairs, on the cellar’s dirt floor, was a can of paint thinner. Long ago she’d read the side label and knew the danger the substance posed if it made contact with the eyes. A person could go blind, it said, if they didn’t wash it out in thirty seconds.

Malorie went to it. She took its handle and brought it upstairs.

Do it quick. And do not rinse.

They were just babies. Could they possibly remember this? Would they forever fear her, or would it one day be buried beneath a mountain of blind memories?

Malorie crossed the kitchen and entered the dark hall leading to their bedroom.

She could hear them breathing within.

At their door, she paused and looked into the blackness in which they slept.

In this moment, she believed she could do it.

Quietly, Malorie entered the bedroom. She set the can on the floor and removed the cloth lids covering their protected cribs. Neither child stirred. Both continued to breathe steadily, as if experiencing pleasant dreams, far away as possible from the nightmares coming to them.

Quickly, Malorie unhooked the wire lid to the Girl’s crib. She bent and lifted the can.