Desperate to believe in and take advantage of a brief symptomatic return to lucidity, even as she knows the stolen time will be delicate, finite, and final, Ramola says, “Natalie, please stay with me.” She means Stop walking and stay with me by the side of the road and she means the impossible, forever kind of Stay with me.
“I wish I could. I’m sorry, Rams.” The tone and the gravel aren’t her voice, but the inflection is hers.
“If the police or an ambulance doesn’t come, we’ll hitch a ride with any car that passes by.”
“You have to get me in the house.”
“It doesn’t look like anyone is home, how do—”
“It’s not safe out here. And you won’t be safe from me.”
“The house is too far from the road. If someone drives by, they might not see us and I’m not leaving you by yourself in there to watch for cars.”
“I need to lie down. I’m about done.”
“You can have my coat and rest on the grass.”
“You have to take my phone after.”
“Natalie—”
“And tell me you’ll adopt her. Tell me yes, again, Rams. One more time. Tell me now.”
“I will try.”
“That’s not a yes.”
Ramola is tempted to remove Natalie’s mask, to see more than her eyes. “Yes.”
“Thank you, Rams. Love you.”
“I love you, too, Natalie.”
Wind gusts and leaves swirl around them. Natalie gasps and full-body twitches as though startled. She quickly looks left, then right, and then ducks her head. “We can’t stay out here.” She whines at phantoms down at her feet. “You’re going to have to do it. When we get to the house.” She carefully lifts her feet one at a time, then scurries forward, ahead of Ramola, and says, “The mouses. The mouses are out of the houses.”
Ramola rushes to catch up. Natalie doesn’t slow down, trudges up the pitched and empty driveway, walking like she’s afraid, being chased. Her strides are unbalanced, too long, too greedy. Ramola worries she’s pushing herself and will fall. She tries to grab Natalie’s right hand but Natalie pulls it away.
Natalie says, “A cat will swallow them down. The way of the world.”
Ramola takes a picture of the farmhouse.
The front banister shows off missing teeth. One squared-off baluster spindle leans against its stoic neighbor. Wooden front steps bow and creak under their feet. The porch floor is warped and narrow, with barely enough room for the front stoop and a sitting area. Gray paint peels and flakes away, revealing scars of dark wood. The black skeleton of a rocking chair is banished to a corner and sags against the house. Purely decorative, the chair doesn’t appear strong enough to hold up a ghost. Behind the chair are two brooms with white plastic handles, the wire bristle heads all but buried beneath leaves and dead grass.
Natalie sways side to side and prattles on about the way of the world.
The screen door is missing its screen and rattles impatiently. Ramola rings the doorbell, knocks, and calls out, “Hello? Is anyone home?” She doesn’t wait long for an answer she assumes isn’t forthcoming and tries the doorknob. It doesn’t turn, but she notices the door isn’t flush within the frame. She leans in and pushes; the door sticks initially but then opens.
Natalie brushes Ramola aside and enters the house first. Ramola stays within the doorframe and whispers after Natalie to wait. Then she calls out to imagined residents and their shadows. Natalie parrots her calls in a high voice. No one answers. There are no approaching frenzied footsteps.
Natalie disappears down a hallway. Ramola steps inside. The house smells of dust and lavender. She turns on a light. In the front entry is a set of steep stairs clinging to the wall like ivy. A mechanized lift rests at the bottom, the seat a smaller version of a dentist’s chair. The chair is dust-free, appearing to have been recently wiped down and cleaned. Whoever lives here likely abandoned ship less than a handful of days ago.
Ramola drops her bags next to the chairlift and leaves the front door open so that she might better hear a siren or an approaching car. She texts the photo of the house and a message about their being inside it to Dr. Awolesi. She follows that up with the somewhat cryptic “The procedure may have to be performed here,” as though she can’t bear to explain or to extrapolate what will happen if no one comes. She dials 911 and leaves it on speakerphone. The call is forwarded to an answering service. Ramola leaves a message.
As she dials and redials 911, hoping to get through to a live operator, Ramola rummages through Natalie’s overnight bag: headphones, phone charger, purse, two pairs of leggings, two T-shirts, socks, nightgown, hair elastics, nursing bras, maternity pads, toiletries, a set of infant babygrows, a green fleece coming-home outfit, a hat, booties, nappies, a set of plastic bottles with nipples, and four containers of ready-to-feed formula.
911 kicks over to the message service, which reissues the cold, high-pitched beep. The house is silent but for Natalie’s voice echoing from somewhere else on the first floor. She is talking to herself. Ramola swears and shouts at the phone. “Someone answer! We need help!”
She rips open and empties Josh’s backpack, contents spilling and thudding to the hardwood floor: a can of Lysol, hand sanitizer, rolled-up red bandannas, a hooded sweatshirt, a pack of disinfectant wipes, a coiled length of white rope (the kind that might be used for a clothesline), a roll of duct tape, latex gloves, painters’ masks, a plastic bottle of water, three disposable lighters, loops of bungee cord, a phone charger, and a sheathed hunting knife. The blade is longer than her forearm.
“Natalie?”
She doesn’t answer. Footsteps creak from the back of the house.
Ramola ducks
