Rose sighed and sat back on her heels. “All right, look. I’ll go check it out, peek in to see who’s in there. You stay here with the rifle.” She was already pulling the strap over her head. “You’re the better sharpshooter anyway.” That was another gift.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. Stay here and keep six. If you see or hear anything, you get ready to shoot.” She handed over the gun. After a moment’s hesitation, he took it, using it as a crutch to hobble over to a tree where he leaned. There was no arguing with her when she had an idea. This time wouldn’t be any different, and he didn’t have the strength to resist, anyway.

“Fine. But you have two minutes, no longer. And try to stay in sight. I can’t exactly skulk around.” He was looking at his leg; the shirt they’d used to try to stanch the bleeding was crusty and dark. It was obvious, even though Rose wouldn’t admit it, that infection was setting in.

“All right. I’m going in.” She shrugged off her backpack and checked her bootlaces. Then she lifted her sweater hood over her dark curls and crouched through the branches like massive drapes, pushing into the tall grass.

The crickets’ music shifted in tone but not in volume, like they were singing from the prows of small boats riding the waves made by her movements. The fireflies were always just up ahead of her, scrawling a broken calligraphy into the dull sky. Rose walked bent low, her knees almost hitting her chest with her high steps. She kept to the perimeter of the house, rounding it like it was a wild horse she was trying to sneak up on, knowing that Derrick had lowered himself to the ground, keeping an eye on her.

The candlelight was hard to trust; it moved, casting shadows without allowing any real view inside. Rose had to go right up to the house, push her back against the grey wood, and slide, careful to keep her feet high and light in case there was any debris or, god forbid, any more traps set in the grass. She looked toward the bush and made eye contact with Derrick. He was barely visible, crouched down, gun ready.

Rose ducked under a sill and waited a beat, then lifted her head so that she was eye level with the glass. She was looking in on a large room stuffed with furniture—armchairs and lawn chairs jostled for space with bookshelves stuffed to overflowing. A long orange couch was draped with mismatched blankets and bed pillows, stained and without cases. In front of it was an uneven coffee table laden with candles and random dishes. The walls were wood paneling, the kind Rose’s great-uncles had in their hunting cabins, cheap and splintery. On the floor, in between the chair legs and more pillows, she could make out the threadbare remains of actual carpet. And then shadows morphed and slid against the far wall—people approaching from a back hallway.