Jack held out the candle to the left and crouched by the bookcase. Sparse flickering, paper spines in disrepair. Novels. A stained picture book. Ava stood beside him watching. My shelf is the bottom one. Here is the copy of Hatchet. Worn and dog-eared. The Giver. A Wrinkle in Time.

He pulled free the last book on the row and turned the pages. Yellowed and shabby. White Fang knew the law well: to oppress the weak and obey the strong. He closed the book and put it in his pocket.

“Jack,” Ava whispered.

“Shh,” he said.

The briefcase was here.

Had to be.

He stacked the books on the floor, half expecting to find some secret hiding spot. Moved the couch. Nothing. Cold dirt. He looked up and scanned the timber joists, but there wasn’t an attic or a door. Behind the Coke machine were just wooden planks. He went over the room again. Moving books. Checking the stove. How much time passed, he didn’t know.

“Let’s leave,” Ava said. “Let’s just go.”

He looked at her, standing with her hands clenched. Watching him. She spoke gently. “It’s just money.”

“No.” He was choking. “No, it’s not. It’s not.”

How to explain? It’s not money.

It’s food. It’s shoes for Matty. A place to live.

Red died for it.

I don’t want them to win.

Wax dripped from the candle to splotch on the floor. Twinge of pain. He bent over, holding his side. A smell there. It occurred to him that he’d taken the clues of White Fang dangerously to heart. Now he could see the lie of it.

There was no briefcase here in this sepulchre of dust. No castle in the air. He said to himself what he hadn’t let himself say before. You want death, he said. You wish for it.

That, at least, is not a lie.

He dropped to his heels and picked up a book from the floor. He put it back and leaned against the shelf. Heat in his eyes. Melted wax searing his hand. Some rage running through him. Life lived on life. There were the eaters and the eaten.

Ava bent and pulled at his hand. “We need to go.”

He was about to get up when he realized he was sitting on dirt.

Frozen dirt.

He got up and crossed the barn to get the shovel, then carried it back. He handed the candle to Ava. “Hold this. Don’t let it go out.”

With his throat stinging, Jack dug the sharp edge of the shovel into the dirt. Gripping the shaft. He put his boot on the steel step and struck with all his weight. The shovel jerked from his hands and clattered across the dirt. He nearly fell.

“Jack,” Ava said. “The ground is frozen.”