What was he just doing, standing before a creature with his eyes partially open? What if he’d seen one? What would he have done to his mom, his sister, himself?

He swipes at his arm again, then bends quick and picks up the blanket.

Grass flattens behind him. To his left, more. Two places now. Three. Something in the distance. Something coming around the side of the barn.

Something on top of the barn.

“Oh, shit,” Tom says.

He’s not shuddering any longer. Now he’s full shaking.

He hears more of them, more steps deep in the fields. A second on the barn. Is one above him on the wall? Literally, on the wall of the barn?

“Oh, shit,” he says again because it’s all he can think to say. He moves fast, grabbing Malorie’s bag, remembering to grab it despite the dread spreading within.

Dread…or madness?

Another behind him. How many?

He moves quick to the barn door. He enters.

“Mom,” Tom says. “Olympia. Get up!”

Olympia doesn’t stir. She’s already awake.

“I hear them,” she says.

Tom, eyes closed, slides the barn door shut behind him.

Malorie is awake now.

“How many?” she says. And her voice is a solid straight line in the darkness.

“A lot,” Olympia says.

Malorie doesn’t tell them to keep their eyes closed. She doesn’t tell them to put on their hoods.

“Come here,” she says. “Both of you.”

Tom goes to her in the darkness. He sets her bag close to where he believes it was. Will she notice if it’s not in the exact place? Does it matter? He’s counted ten of them outside. Three on the barn. Seven in the grass. Does it matter if Malorie discovers he was reading?

That he was touched?

Almost to her, he realizes he’s still holding the pages. He can’t slide them back into the bag now without her hearing.

Does it matter?

Movement outside. He can hear Olympia has already joined Malorie in the center of the barn. No sudden noises out there, no banging, no knocking. All quiet, deliberate steps. The creatures closing in.

He brushes frantically at his arm. He rolls his sleeves down.

His mind is whirling, too fast to hold. Malorie believes you can go mad by touch.

Is it true?

Is it?

“Mom,” he says, horror in his voice. But he doesn’t care about hiding it. He needs her. Wants her near. Wants her to say he’s fine.

He believes, with complete certainty, that if he wasn’t fine, if he did start losing his mind, Malorie would remain hidden from him just like she hides from the creatures.

“MOM!”

Her hand is on his wrist. She pulls him to her. He feels Olympia there, the three of them, crowded together.

“Gloves,” Malorie says.

Tom puts on his gloves.

He listens. He can’t tell. He listens. He doesn’t know.