Stop being so Molly, I tell myself. But Molly killed her child. Molly knows that unthinkable things can happen and now she has thoughts that are sometimes not realistic, that are hyperbolic, as John would say. Still, she thinks them. Because one time, they were real. And they did happen.

Molly.

I think about the log in the fireplace last night and wonder if that was a crazy, senseless thought. And Evan with his cruelty . . . and Nicole—does she really hate me?

Alice speaks now.

“We’re home!” She sounds victorious.

The man runs back. He gets in and closes the door.

“Wow! That’s some storm!” he says, shaking off the rain.

He pulls the drive shaft down and the truck moves through the open gate. On the other side, he stops again. Gets out. Runs to the fence to put back the chains. And locks us here, inside this property on this dirt driveway.

He gets back in and we drive. I pay close attention this time. I watch the speedometer hover at twenty-eight miles per hour. I count the seconds in my head. I count them like a school girl. One Mississippi . . . two Mississippi . . .

I count to twenty. That’s maybe a third of a mile—a third of a mile to get from the road to the house.

I try to store this information somewhere inside my scrambled mind. I try to picture what it means for this property and the house that I can see now in front of the truck when it comes to a stop.

The man shuts off the engine and removes the keys.

He gets out and runs to the passenger side. He opens my door, then Alice’s, and he scoops her up. She wraps her arms around his neck and squeals when the rain hits her face and her body. She presses herself against him the way a child does in the arms of her father, and a wave of relief takes me by surprise.

Alice loves this man and he loves her. Where there is love, there cannot be danger.

“Come on!” he calls to me now. I get out and follow behind them. I feel myself pull my inadequate but fashionable rain jacket up over my head as far as it will go and I laugh because I am overwhelmed now, with this relief. The laughter brings tears, which I stifle before I catch up to my rescuers.

I see little as we walk. Just the shadow of a large porch with posts and wide steps with no rail. I watch my feet as I climb. One, two, three, four . . .

Six steps bring us to the porch floor. Three steps bring us to the door, which opens without a key. A waft of dry air emerges, smelling of must and wood.