The boat is moving fast now. Rick said it was only a hundred yards to the trigger.

She rows with the person she was when she awoke today. The person who thought a fog might hide her and the children from someone like Gary, who could still be out there, still watching them move down the river. She rows with the self she was when the wolf struck. When the man in the boat went mad. When the birds went mad. And when the creature, the thing she fears above all things, toyed with her only form of protection.

The blindfold.

With the thought of the cloth, and all it’s meant to her, Malorie hears what sounds like a loud metallic explosion.

The rowboat crashes into something. Malorie quickly checks the children.

It’s the fence, she knows. They have triggered Rick’s alarm.

Malorie, her heart pounding, no longer needing to row, turns her head toward the sky and yells. It is relief. It is anger. It is everything.

“We’re here,” she calls loudly. “We’re here!”

From the banks, they hear movement. Something is coming fast toward them.

Malorie is gripping the paddles. It feels like her hands will always be in this position.

As she coils something touches her arm.

“It’s all right!” a voice says. “My name is Constance. It’s okay. I’m with Rick.”

“Are your eyes open?!”

“No. I’m wearing a blindfold.”

Malorie’s mind is flooded with distantly familiar sounds.

This is what a woman sounds like. She hasn’t heard another female voice since Olympia went mad.

“I have two children with me. It’s just the three of us.”

“Children?” Constance says, suddenly excited. “Grab my hand, let’s get you out of the boat. I’ll take you to Tucker.”

“Tucker?” Malorie pauses.

“Yes, I’ll show you—it’s where we live. Our facility.”

Constance helps Malorie grab the children first. Their hands are clasped together as Malorie is pulled out of the boat.

“You’ll have to excuse me for carrying a gun,” Constance says timidly.

“A gun?”

“You can only imagine the sorts of animals that have triggered our fence. Are you hurt?” Constance asks.

“I am. Yes.”

“We have medicine. We have doctors.”

Malorie’s lips crack painfully as she smiles bigger than she has in more than four years.

“Medicine?”

“Yes. Medicine, tools, paper. So much.”

They begin walking, slowly. Malorie’s arm clutches Constance’s shoulders. She cannot walk by herself. The children grip Malorie’s pants, following blindfolded.

“Two kids,” Constance says, her voice soothing. “I can only imagine what you’ve been through today.”

She says today but both know she means for years.

They are walking uphill and Malorie’s body throbs with pain. Then the ground beneath them changes, suddenly. Concrete. A sidewalk. Malorie hears a light clicking sound.

“What is that?”

“That noise?” Constance asks. “It’s a walking stick. But we don’t need it anymore. We’re here.”

Malorie hears her knock quickly on a door.

What sounds like heavy metal creaks open and Constance guides them inside.

The door slams shut behind them.

Malorie smells things she hasn’t smelled in years. Food. Cooked food. Sawdust, as though someone is building something. She can hear it, too. The low hum of a machine. Several machines whirring at once. The air feels clean and fresh, and the sound of conversations echoes far away.

“It’s okay to open your eyes now,” Constance says kindly.

“No!” Malorie shouts, gripping the Boy and Girl. “Not the children! I’ll do it first.”

Someone else approaches. A man.

“My God,” he says. “Is it really you? Malorie?”

She recognizes a man’s dull, husky voice. Years ago, she heard this voice on the other end of a phone. She has debated, with herself, for four long years, whether or not she’d hear his voice once more.

It is Rick.

Malorie tugs at her blindfold and slowly opens her eyes, squinting against the harsh white light of the facility.

They are in a large hallway flooded with light. It is so bright that Malorie can barely keep her eyes open. It’s an enormous school. The ceilings are high, with domed light panels that make Malorie feel as though she’s outside. Tall walls reach to the ceiling and are crowded with bulletin boards. Desks. Glass cases. There are no windows, but the air feels fresh and crisp, like the outdoors. The floor is clean and cool, the hallway is brick, and very long. Turning back to Rick, she stares at his withered face and understands.

His eyes are open but they do not focus on any one thing. They loll in his head, glassy and gray, and lost their glimmer years ago. His full head of brown hair hangs long and shaggy over his ears but does not hide a deep and faded scar near his left eye. He touches it apprehensively, as if feeling Malorie’s gaze. She notices his wooden walking stick, worn and awkward, bent from some broken tree limb.

“Rick,” she says, pulling the children close behind her, “you’re blind.”

Rick nods.

“Yes, Malorie. Many of us here are. But Constance can see as clearly as you can. We’ve come a long way.”

Malorie slowly looks around at the walls, taking it all in. Handwritten banners mark the progress of their recovery, and flyers declare daily assignments for farming, water purification, and a medical evaluation timesheet, filled with appointments.

Her eyes stop above her, and in brass letters embedded in a brick arch, she reads:

JANE TUCKER SCHOOL FOR THE BLIND

“The man—” Rick pauses. “The one on the recording—he isn’t with you, is he?” Rick says.

Malorie feels her heartbeat quicken and swallows with difficulty.

“Malorie?” he says, concerned.

Constance touches Rick’s shoulder and softly whispers, “No, Rick. He isn’t with them.”

Malorie steps back, still gripping the children, moving toward the door.

“He’s dead,” she answers rigidly, scanning the hall for others. Not trusting. Not yet.

Rick begins to tap his walking stick, moving closer to Malorie, reaching out to touch her.

“Malorie—we’ve contacted many people over the years, but fewer than you might think. Who knows how many of us are alive out there? And who knows how many are sane? You’re the only person we expected to be coming down the river. That doesn’t mean nobody else could, of course, but after careful thought, we decided Tom’s voice would not only alert you to the fact that you’d arrived, but it would also let strangers know a civilization of some kind was near, if they were to get stopped by the fence first. Had I known he was no longer with you, I’d have insisted we use something else. Please, accept my apology.”

She watches him closely. His voice sounds hopeful, optimistic even. She hasn’t heard a tone of voice like his in a long time. Still, his face wears the stress and age of living in this new world just like hers does. Like the housemates once looked, years ago.

As he and Constance begin to explain how the facility operates, the fields of potatoes and squash, their harvest of berries in the summer, a means of purifying rainwater, Malorie sees a shadowy figure move behind Rick’s head.

A small group of young women emerge from a room wearing plain, light blue clothing. They tap walking sticks, their hands waving in front of them. The women move quietly, ghostly, past Malorie, and she can feel her stomach sink as she sees their cavernous, hollow eyes. She feels light-headed, sick, like she might throw up.

Where the women’s eyes should be are two enormous, dark scars.

Malorie clutches the children tighter. They bury their heads against her legs.

Constance reaches toward her, but Malorie pulls away, frantically searching for her blindfold on the ground, dragging the children with her.

“She’s seen them,” Constance says to Rick.