A moment later the door opens, and Sim walks out. There’s dust in a streak across his face where he’s wiped his eyes with a hand. He doesn’t say a word but his mood is low, glowering. He locks the big oak doors and pockets the key, then crosses over to the fire, dips a mug into the pot on the hearth, and drinks out of it. Maeve had thought there was some kind of food in there maybe, but of course it’s melting snow. No power means no filtration system. Even if the pipes don’t freeze, Dan won’t allow them to drink what’s coming out of the taps.

Sim doesn’t sit; he wanders back around the chairs and Maeve understands he’s come to stand behind where she is on the floor. She moves so that her back is against the warm stone of the hearth and she can see everyone at once.

Dan lets himself fall into an armchair next to Anna, almost brushing her hand. Maeve notices again the pointed effort he makes to keep space between them. It doesn’t feel like discretion. It feels like negging.

She’s irritated on Anna’s behalf, even if Anna herself doesn’t seem to care.

“I have to be honest,” he says, oddly pensive. “I thought we’d have power by now.”

Maeve plays with her phone, turning it in her hand.

“I’m quite worried,” she says suddenly. “I’m worried about my kids at home. How much longer till we get back online?”

Dan shifts in his seat, openly surprised.

“Oh, I don’t mean for you to worry,” he says. With no task at hand, all he can manage is performative calm. He looks stiff: like a Wikipedia image for normal, unafraid man. “The generator—I mean, that’s fucking irritating. But I’ve been up here in storms before. It’s not uncommon to lose power for a day or two. And we’ll be just fine without it.”

Anna just laughs, rather meanly. Her own pointed effort. Dan’s face darkens.

“Not something you put in the brochure,” Anna says.

“Sure it is.” This is Justin, already half in the bag, his voice growing louder as the evening wears on. “‘Research and develop new work in the quiet seclusion of the High Water Center for the Arts.’ I mean, Quiet Seclusion Is Us, am I right?” He takes a drink.

Maeve draws her knees in and gives herself a hug.

“I don’t mean to complain. I just—” She pauses. “It’s hard not to panic.”

I Survived the High Water Center for the Arts. She wants it on a T-shirt.

Sim drops down to sit on the edge of the stone hearth. He is not quite touching Maeve, but she can see his arm and hand, still dusty, out of the corner of her eye. He leans toward her.