My hand reaches out before I can stop it and grabs the man’s shirt. I look at him with pleading eyes.

He pulls away and walks to the dead phone. There’s a notepad next to it, and a pen on the counter. He grabs them both and brings them to me.

“Here,” he says. His tone is now cheerful, just like Alice’s.

“Write down the names and numbers of everyone you want me to call.”

Yes!

I write furiously—names and numbers. John. Nicole. Evan. A few close friends from my grief support group. I rip the paper from the pad and give it back to him.

He looks it over. “Can you write your name?”

“It’s just Molly,” I say. “They’ll know.”

“Write it anyway,” he insists. “Just in case. I forget things sometimes.”

I write my full name. Molly Clarke. I hand back the paper.

“Can you call them as soon as you get a signal? Tell them where to come get me? That I’m safe?”

The man’s face softens. It melts into a smile that is friendly and warm.

“Of course! It’s going to be just fine. I promise.”

I feel like crying now.

“And maybe you can check on my car? Let the police know?”

I think about my phone in the car, how it must be sending out a signal. How John will know how to find it online. We share an account.

Maybe they are already on the way!

Something about this thought feels strange. I don’t want it to feel strange and I fight against it.

They will come, won’t they?

Oh God . . . how it feels strange, a sudden alarm as I wonder about the log on the fire, and Nicole’s words and Evan’s behavior.

The man folds the paper carefully into the pocket of his flannel shirt.

“Sure thing!” he says with enthusiasm.

I feel relief, though it rests on shaky ground.

I talk myself through it. The man will go to town and call my family. He will check on my car and tell the police where I am. Maybe later today when he feels better about the trees we can leave Alice and he will drive me to town to get my car and fill it with gas from his tanks. Maybe I can drive home myself.

Alice pulls a chair up to a cupboard.

“Do you like tea?” she asks me.

It takes me a moment to process her question. I am still adjusting to this new situation—not going to town. Not calling my family.

“Yes,” I say, finally.

“Look at all the kinds we have!” she says, opening the cupboard to reveal several canisters of loose leaf tea.

“Come here and pick one!” she demands.

And I obey.

“You can heat the water with the stove. The generator should have it working,” the man says.