“Who’s this?” a voice asked.

It was a couple that had opened the door, old enough to be Eugene's parents’ age, if they had survived. The man was tall and broad-shouldered but beginning to stoop, worn down by the decade; the woman was slight, still pretty but somehow faded, like she had little left to live for. Their clothes were old and scuffed, mended more times than the fabric could bear, but they held their heads high as they stood in their home, doors open to outlaws even as the vines crept nearer and the waters rose.

“This is Eugene Rêveur. Eugene, this is Todd and Nancy Brown. They’ve been kind enough to offer their home to us for a few days.”

Eugene nodded to them. Did they think he was an outlaw as well? It hardly mattered.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Rêveur,” Todd said, though he didn’t offer to shake his hand. Todd was the type of man used to working the land and staying alive through sheer force of will. Nancy looked Eugene up and down, her arms folded over her narrow chest.

“We’ve got room,” she said. “Always did have more rooms than souls in this house.” She nodded into the depths of the place, where the stairs loomed in the shadows. All the windows were boarded over, the sun only able to peek through the cracks. From the road, the house would look abandoned. “Go on upstairs and get yourselves cleaned up. There’ll be sandwiches in the kitchen when you’re ready.”

“We appreciate that, Nancy,” Walker said.

She smiled, though her expression remained guarded. “Go on, then.”

Eugene followed Walker and Monnet. The stairs creaked with every step, so old they dipped in the middle, worn down by years of tread.

“Pick a room,” Walker invited. “There are beds to spare, like Nancy says.”

“Why did you bring me here?”

Walker paused to look at him.

“You used me for cover to escape the bank, but you didn’t need to bring me any further. You could have shot me in the street.”

“We were never going to shoot you.”

All the reports agreed: Johnny Walker and Angelique Monnet only shot folks who drew arms against them. Feds, cops. Civilians were largely left alone, though it wasn’t unheard of for some poor soul to get caught in the crossfire once the Bureau got involved. It was a tragedy, but a small price to pay for the capture of two such fugitives. That was what the press always said, anyway. The families of the dead disagreed, especially when Walker and Monnet had never done them any harm. Not harm like the authorities did, from time to time.

“You’re all dusty from the car floor,” Walker said quietly. “Get cleaned up, then come down for lunch. We’ll talk. You’re all right.”

“No, I’m not.” But Eugene did as Walker said. He didn’t see any real alternative, not with Walker still holding that gun like he was.

Lunch was a quiet affair, the five of them gathered around the kitchen table, a plate of sandwiches in the middle like it was a common social call. The table was as old as everything else, with deep cracks running through the wood, their edges worn smooth over the decades. Eugene felt he had slipped into some other world, halfway between waking life and dreaming death. Time passed strangely in the house with the boarded windows, impossible to watch the sun track its course across the sky. The grandfather clock in the foyer was broken, its pendulum long gone still.