Charlotte considers that for a moment, then says, “I’m glad they didn’t. This version is more hopeful.”
Her mother reaches out and pats her leg. “You’re a sweet girl, Charlie. You really are.”
They watch in silence for a few minutes, both of them sinking further into the cushions as sore joints loosen and exhaustion sinks in. Tabitha’s eyes drift closed and Charlotte starts thinking that a nap might be just the thing. The crunch of tires turning onto the gravel at the end of the long drive snaps her back into awareness.
“Mom.”
She didn’t need to say anything. Tabitha’s eyes pop open even as she says it. She springs from the couch in one swift move, heading for the window. Charlotte knows what’s coming from the way her mother’s shoulders tighten and her hand reaches for the shotgun on the table by the door.
“Mom?”
Sparing only one glance back, Tabitha’s face is set and hard, ready to do what needs doing. “Go hide. Get on the radio and call the sheriff.”
Charlotte doesn’t argue or lose her composure. She’s not that kind of girl and never has been. She races for the receiver on the hall table, grabs the portable off the rack as she passes, then hits the stairs to the second floor. In the upper hallway she leaps to yank the attic foldaway door open. The bang of the stairs unfolding is loud, but the driveway is long and the sound of the tires indicates whoever is coming isn’t hurrying.
As she climbs, she looks back through the railing and down to the first floor. Tabitha is watching her go. Her mother’s clipped nod is all the confirmation she needs. Tucking the radio into her waistband, she climbs into the attic and pulls the stairs up after her.
They cleared away a lot of the attic clutter over the winter, knowing this might happen. Even so, it’s dusty and dim. Light filters in from the big louvered vents on each side of the house, but it’s gray light. Attics are spooky places to begin with, so the dim light and piles of stuff merely enhance the feeling.
Charlotte makes her way to the far end of the space where it overlooks the front of the house. They’ve created a sort of blind here, a place that might be missed if not inspected carefully. From the area near the stairs, it looks like a wall fronted by boxes, the vented window behind it hidden from view. Sliding around that wall made of plywood, Charlotte enters a narrow space. A shelving unit holds water containers and packaged food. A rolled up sleeping bag and backpack full of potentially useful items are tucked beside it.
Charlotte had hoped never to use this. In the summer, the attic is blisteringly hot, even with the solar fans circulating the air. It’s not yet spring, but the sun is bright on the black roof, which means this attic is already a few degrees warmer than the house below.
Careful not to knock anything off the shelves, she picks her way to the vented window and sets her eye to one of the wooden slats that make up the vent. They’re slanted to protect the opening from the rain and direct sun, but they’re slanted downward, so she can see. The screen that keeps the insects out breaks everything up into tiny squares. She doesn’t like what she sees.
A van and truck have pulled up into the circle in front of their house. Inside the vehicles, Charlotte sees male faces though the windshields. Twisting the knob on the radio, Charlotte winces at the squelch, then presses the button.
“Sheriff Dewalt! Sheriff!” Charlotte’s voice is hushed, but filled with barely suppressed panic. Below her, the sounds of her mother walking toward the door leak through the floorboards.
The wait seems interminable, though she knows it can’t be more than a few seconds. She knows this, but she’s bouncing in fear and anxiety anyway.
“Sheriff Dewalt here.” His voice is wary, tense…taut. He gave them the radio for emergencies and the tone of her hushed and urgent call can’t be mistaken for a friendly check-in.
“It’s Charlotte! A truck and van filled with men are here! Please come! Hurry!” Even though she’s trying to whisper, her voice rises to a pleading, frantic whine at the end.
“On my way. Charlotte, keep calm. Are you in place?”
The question might sound vague, but Sheriff Dewalt is well aware of the hiding place arranged in the attic. It was his suggestion.
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Can you see?”
“Yes.”
“What’s happening?”
Through the radio, Charlotte hears the sound of boots running on gravel, then the first syllables of whatever the sheriff is yelling out to someone else. It works to calm Charlotte just a fraction, just enough for her to pull in a full breath. He’s coming and he’s not alone.
Squeezing her eyes shut to breathe in another calming breath, she opens her eyes and peers carefully through the slats. The passenger door to the van is open, though no one has stepped out yet. Feeling exposed, Charlotte remembers what her mother told her and sinks to the floor. She scoots closer to the vent, then sets her eye to the lowest slat.
“They’re still in the vehicles, but one of them has a door open,” she says, her voice still shaky with fear.
“Do you see weapons? Do you see anything other than the vehicles?”
Charlotte’s focus had been so entirely riveted to the vehicles that she hadn’t thought of anything else. She’s suddenly aware that absolutely anything or anyone might have snuck up on the house from any direction.
With a whine of new fear, Charlotte gets up and toes off her shoes. Racing on bare feet across the attic, winding around the blind, and assorted piles of boxes, she stops at each vent to look out at the world.
“No, nothing. The horses are grazing and the chickens are quiet, so no one could be there. I can’t tell on one side because of the trees, but I don’t
