“Hand over hand,” he says. Though really now he’s just walking alongside the rope, bucket in one hand. Malorie’s told him many times how they did it in the house on Shillingham, the house where Tom was born. They tied the rope around their waists and got water in pairs. Olympia says Malorie talks about that house more often than she realizes. But they both know she only talks about it up to a point. Then, nothing. As if the ending of the story is too dark, and repeating it might bring it back upon her.

At the well, his arms bare below the short sleeves, Tom secures the second bucket and turns the crank. The metal clangs against the stone as it always does but despite the contained cacophony, Tom hears a foot upon the grass to his left. He hears what he thinks are wheels, too.

A wheelbarrow pushed past the well.

He stops cranking. The bucket takes a moment to settle.

Someone’s here. He can hear them breathing.

He thinks of the hoodie hanging on the hook.

Another step. A shoe. Dry grass flattens in a different way beneath a bare foot than it does the solid sole of a shoe.

A person, then.

He does not ask who it is. He doesn’t move at all.

A third step and Tom wonders if the person knows he’s here. Surely they had to have heard him?

“Hello?”

It’s a man’s voice. Tom hears paper rustling, like when Olympia flips pages while reading. Does the man have books?

Tom is scared. But he’s thrilled, too.

A visitor.

Still, he does not answer. Some of Malorie’s rules make more sense in the moment.

Tom steps away from the well. He could run to the cabin’s back door. It wouldn’t be difficult, and he’d know when to stop.

In his personal darkness, he’s all ears.

“I’d like to speak to you,” the man says.

Tom takes another step. His fingertips touch the rope. He turns to face the house.

He hears the small wheels creak. Imagines weapons in the barrow.

Then he’s moving fast, faster than he’s ever taken this walk before.

“Hey,” the man says.

But Tom is at the back door and knocking five times before the man says another word.

“Tom?”

“Yes. Hurry.”

“Are your—”

“Mom. Hurry.”

Malorie opens the back door and Tom nearly knocks her over as he rushes inside.

“What’s going on?” Olympia asks.

“Mom—” Tom begins.

But there is a knock at the front door.

The door is thin and old. Malorie has expressed worry before; it isn’t enough to stop anything, or anyone, from coming in.

“It’s a man,” Tom says. But Malorie has already tapped him on the shoulder. He knows what this means. He knows also that Olympia received the same tap.

Tom doesn’t speak again.