Cold mist bit into Clare’s exposed skin. She couldn’t tell whether it was just an early morning frost or the temperature was dropping again. Her breath misted, and she was grateful for the warm breakfast in her stomach. Smoke rose from a stack of charred sticks where Dorran had heated their food.
They slid into the car. The radio still played its static. It struck Clare as an acutely sad thing that it had been sitting on the dashboard all night, still trying to make contact. She watched it for a moment before reaching forward to turn it off.
Dorran didn’t speak, but she could see the worry gathering in his eyes as his brows pulled down.
“It’s okay.” The words were painful, but she smiled through them. “If we couldn’t get through to her by now, I doubt we will. It’s easier not to have it there as a constant reminder.”
He nodded and handed the folded map to Clare. Her eyes blurred as she blinked the tears back. By that point, she was almost certain they were just going through the motions. It had been nearly two days since she’d last heard from Beth. The bunker would be empty. But she still had to get there, just to know she had. To be certain. To know she’d done everything she could have.
In the distance, something inhuman wailed. Dorran stared into the mist that curled across the field. “It might be wise to begin moving.”
“Yes, that’s probably a good idea.” She traced lines across the map. “Try the second path across the stream again. The water might have gone down overnight. While you’re doing that, I’ll see if I can find an alternative.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Despite the cold, despite the sore muscles and stiff neck, and despite the implications of the silent radio hanging over them, Clare felt more like herself that morning. The man at her side was familiar and safe, not the stranger he had felt like the day before.
The car rocked across potholed ground, splashing fresh mud over its already-spoiled paint as they moved towards the river. Clare ran her finger across the map. She knew she had to find a way forward, but she hadn’t been in that part of the country in years; her trips along the road had always ended at Marnie’s house.
We need a high bridge. Not something low. Not something suspended a few feet above the water. A bridge with at least five meters of clearance.
The car slowed, and Clare looked up from the map. They had arrived back at the water’s edge. The river had subsided a little overnight, but not nearly enough. The sign declaring the bridge’s name peeked above the frothing water, its metal bent slightly by the force of the deluge. Everything else was still invisible.
Dorran turned to Clare, patient but waiting for direction. She chewed her lip as she traced lines on the map.
Wait… Marnie.
When Clare made her weekly visit to her aunt’s farm, she was greeted by three things: hot coffee, fresh cake, and gossip. Scratch that. Four things. Her cats always ended up in my lap somehow.
She managed a smile. The memories were bittersweet: sitting by the old stone fireplace, two cats already squished together in her lap and a third jonesing to get up. Marnie would sit in her favourite rocking chair, holding her cup as she chatted, her hair falling out of its bun and her cardigan a little crooked, but looking so happy that none of it mattered.
Clare latched on to that image. She held it in her mind, savouring it, trying to make its goodness overwrite her last memory of her aunt. It did, a little. She thought, with time and effort, she might be able to remember her aunt’s name without feeling sick.
Marnie had loved gossip, but not the kind other people usually spread. She didn’t talk about who was having an affair with who, how so-and-so’s child had been expelled, or about how the neighbours had fallen into a public argument. Her gossip could have been described with one word: wholesome.
She’d told Clare about the neighbour who snuck into the local church’s garden early on Saturday mornings so that they could trim the plants and fix anything that looked untidy, about the teenage boy who’d finally gotten up the courage to ask out the girl working at the grocery store after making eyes at each other for weeks—and about Mr. Peterson’s private bridge.
“He invited me to see it last week,” Marnie had whispered conspiratorially. “It’s the loveliest little bridge I’ve ever seen. Or, I guess I shouldn’t call it little! It’s so high off the water that I was afraid of falling. There isn’t a bridge close to his house, you see, and he loves to go into the forest on the other side of the river to pick wild mushrooms. The men from the nearest farms all got together one weekend and helped him build it. It’s good to know his friends care for him so much.”
“Marnie told me that Mr. Peterson has a bridge.” Clare grabbed Dorran’s hand, excitement making her heart jump. “It wouldn’t be on the map since it’s a private property. But it’s high. Maybe high enough.”
“Good.” He grinned as he put the car into reverse and backed away from the overflowing river. “Which way?”
“Uh…” That was a problem. Clare didn’t actually know Mr. Peterson. Her entire knowledge of the region came from her aunt. She bit her lip as her smile faded. “Hm.”
“It’s all right. Take your time.”
Think, Clare. Where would he live? He was a farmer—she knew that much. But almost everyone along the winding rural road was a farmer of some kind or another. What else did Marnie tell you about him?
Two years’ worth of visits swam together in her
