He stumbled over the field, dragging the axe in one hand. Muddling along. Beneath the snow an uneven growth. Perhaps once a potato crop. He held out his other hand in front of him. The world kept shifting, until he closed his swollen eye. He could hardly see his hand before him. Distant lights of a home on that hill. Trees swishing in the wind to the south. Matty to the east. He fell to his knees.

The axe was too heavy. He let it drop from his grip and waited for the earth to come back under his legs. Presently the snow refocused, the dead crop beneath, the far-off lights of the home. A heavy kind of feeling in his body was to be worried about later.

Whisper of wind. Silence.

He concentrated. Get up. Look behind you.

Darkness.

Walk.

Slow going. He needed a drink.

Don’t eat the snow. It’ll just make you colder.

When he came upon the house where he’d left Matty, he halted, wobbling. He squinted his eyes. There. Between those sags and wall slats. A pale fire might glow. Dear God, please. At the door, he heard a puzzling sound: a faint rise of melody.

A voice sang softly.

He fastened his hand on the knob. His throat hot. He stifled a cough.

At once the singing cut off, and he heard “Shh!”

Footsteps lurched, and the door opened. Warm air swelled out, and Matty stood in front of him. Bathed in fire, wrapped in one of the blankets. Talking, pulling his hand. Safe.

“I knew you’d get back. I knew it.”

Jack smelled fried potatoes.

Matty put his arms around Jack and kept talking.

“I know you said to, but I didn’t call Mrs. Browning. I’m sorry.”

Jack risked no energy on answering. With every heartbeat came a feeling of shutting off. A black curtain falling. He stepped inside and stopped dead.

The girl from school stood by the fire, watching him. She looked struck speechless, as if she’d seen a horror.

Ava.

“I called her,” Matty said. “From the math book.”

Jack tried to process this.

Matty again: “Your face is hurt.”

Jack lifted a hand to his forehead. Ava watched him, her expression a mask of wary alarm. On the hearth behind her sat a cooling pan of fried potatoes. Smell of butter. On the floor was a crate of food. Oranges, red apples, canned ham, macaroni and cheese. Cookies. Gallon-size jug of water, paper plates.

“You’re bleeding,” Matty said.

Jack glanced down at himself, dimly conscious of his filthy appearance. Blood blotched through the side of his coat. Dark cuts smudged his left wrist. He looked at Matty. “It’s all right,” he said.

Ava stared for a moment as though stunned. Then she walked to him and took his hand. “Come and sit.”

He faltered forward a few steps and dropped to his backside on the blankets.