“Here,” Ron says. “I’ve determined you were wrong. You do need a drink. And if I’m going to remove my fold…I’m going to need one, too.”

Malorie has not seen Ron Handy before. She’s only heard his voice. The dozen times she’s spoken with him, whether from outside his service station or in it, she’s never removed her own. Ron has asked that of her. To protect himself.

She feels a glass against the back of her hand. She takes it.

“Are we ready then?” Ron asks.

But Malorie hears concern in his voice. He’s nervous. She’s nervous. What will she see? What will Ron Handy look like?

“You don’t have to do this,” she says.

“But it feels like I do,” Ron says.

Malorie hears him breathe deep. Hears him stand.

“Oh, my,” he says. “You’re very pretty. I had no idea I was living so close to a dream.” Then, “You’re wearing long sleeves and a hood. On a hot day. You’re worried they might touch you.”

Malorie removes her fold. Ron Handy, larger than she imagined, looks like a big, scared child. They share uneasy smiles.

“Yes.”

“You told me about the blind woman who went mad. Can’t quit thinking of that?”

“No.”

“I understand.”

They stare at each other a beat. Take each other in. Malorie sees fear and exhaustion in his face. She wonders if, in the old world, Ron Handy was wealthy.

“Thank you,” she says, “for calling me pretty. Living with two teens…I haven’t had a compliment like that in a long time.”

Ron reaches his glass toward her. They cheer.

“To company,” he says. “And to retaining our senses, no matter how many they try to take from us.”

They drink.

Malorie marvels at the amount of stuff that surrounds him. Odds and ends are piled floor to ceiling. She sees the radio. A cot. Boxes of wires and tools. Canned goods and blankets. Paint cans, magazines, and gasoline. Ron stands beside a foldout lounge chair. He wears a sport jacket and shorts.

“Not where I once imagined myself to be.” Ron smiles. “But who knows…it might be better than where I was heading!”

He laughs. Malorie wants to, but she simply can’t.

Sam and Mary Walsh.

It feels like, if she doesn’t start moving now, she’s going to miss the very last breath they take.

“No photos in there?” Ron asks, acknowledging the papers. She sees the paranoia in his eyes. The shiftiness. The fear.

“No. I worried about the same thing. It’s all notes and diagrams.”

“What else?”

“A lot.”

Ron nods. He looks Malorie in the eye.

“Why do I feel afraid?”

Malorie experiences an emotion she hasn’t felt in a decade or more: kinship with a fellow adult. It’s large enough to bring tears to her eyes. But she doesn’t allow them passage yet.