The road curved through a copse of trees and then widened into an empty asphalt parking area large enough for about ten cars. Patches of grass and weeds had broken through the pavement. A large Quonset hut sat at the far end, its steel surface brown with rust. Vines grew up the sides and onto the arched roof.

Susan looked beyond it to what she first thought was another road. She wondered why O’Hara hadn’t driven them there on what appeared to be a straighter, smoother alternative. As they neared the hut, she realized the road was actually a runway, plagued by the same splotches of invading grass. At one time, the hut must have been an airplane hangar.

O’Hara stopped in front of a normal-sized door adjacent to two others large enough to admit a small aircraft. He killed the engine and turned to face Susan. “There’s an office where we’ll be more comfortable. I’ll need to start a generator for power, but we’ll have lights and heat. Do as I say and we’ll get along fine.”

He took the umbrella. Susan watched him disappear around the side of the hut. A few minutes later, the murmur of a gasoline engine rose above the rain. O’Hara returned, opened the smaller hut door, and turned on an interior light. Then he came to the car.

He double-clicked the key fob and Susan’s door unlocked. “I’ll get the wheelchair from the back. Then hurry inside. I’ll be right behind you.”

Susan unsnapped her seat belt and helped Davie out of his. Pulling him close, she tried to shield him as she assisted him into the chair and then wheeled him through the rain.

The office wasn’t a separate room but simply a cluster of old battleship-gray furniture in an area of about twenty by twenty feet. Three metal desks, three beat-up rolling chairs, two vertical filing cabinets, and two waste bins, one of which was overturned. Bare bulbs dangled from an overhead power strip running to the back corner where built-out perpendicular walls and a door created a room not much bigger than a closet. A second power strip ran a few inches above the floor providing multiple outlets. A space heater was the only thing plugged into it. The unit rotated two hundred seventy degrees as its fan blew hot air across the cool concrete floor.

Beyond the throw of the lights, the rest of the interior faded into a murky, empty gloom.

Susan heard O’Hara close the outside door.

“I’m afraid the heater won’t do much in this open space,” he grumbled as he set a backpack on one of the desks. “But we won’t be here long.”

“Are we waiting on Mr. Bradshaw?” Susan asked.