We enter the first room on the left. It has a bed and a dresser and an oval mirror which hangs on the wall. The bed is neatly made with a quilt and two pillows. It has a private bathroom which I can see through an open door. The one window has been boarded with plywood. For the storm, I tell myself. Like the diner back in town.

“This is the guest room. You can sleep here tonight,” Alice says. “I sleep right next door.”

I smile at her. She smiles back. But I have no intention of sleeping in this house.

John will come for me—even in the storm. Even if he doesn’t love me.

“Can I wait with you?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say. The house is dark. I understand. But then we both hear footsteps moving about. Stopping, shifting, moving again. A new light comes down the hall and suddenly the man is there in the doorway.

“Go get ready for bed,” he says to Alice. He holds two lanterns and he gives one to her. She obeys, leaving us alone.

Then he speaks to me.

“I turned on the generator. It’ll run the heat. Use the lantern to get around tonight. There are some clothes in the dresser. You can wear those if you want.”

I stare at the man now, the towel pressed to my face all the way up to my eyes.

“I need to make that call—I’m sure my husband will find a way to get me home.”

Even as I ask, I already know the answer. I know because he hasn’t offered me a phone and that is strange. Not Molly strange, I think. Truly strange.

And then the answer comes.

“The thing is—we don’t get cell reception out here and the landlines are down. I just checked the phone in the kitchen.”

I nod and manage a polite smile. I don’t know why I do this. A habit from living where I live, in a culture of emotional suppression.

“Can we try, at least? Maybe a different part of the house, or outside? Or I can borrow the truck and call from the road, farther down?” And then I continue, rambling now. “Because my husband and daughter are going to be very worried. I was supposed to be home over an hour ago and I left my car on the side of the road. I’m sure people are already wondering whose it is. I imagine the police will be looking for me and I would feel terrible using up their resources like that.”

I ramble and stare at his face, searching for acknowledgment or surprise or anything resembling a human response. But he just watches me, watches my lips move, and smiles sympathetically.