“Do you think, when Martha returns, she’ll be able to find us?”
“She’s not coming back,” said Bird.
“But do you think we’re buried so far now that it looks only like a desert of snow? Can you even see the town as you approach?”
“How much snow could there be?”
“We are covered,” she said, “and who knows how high it goes?”
“It cannot go on forever,” said Bird. “It has to stop somewhere.”
He withdrew his pistol and held it steady. He placed it back behind his belt. He withdrew his pistol and held it steady. He placed it back behind his belt.
“Do you think the bodies will be as we left them?”
“No,” he said.
“You’ve grown cold,” she said.
“There is snow everywhere,” he said.
“Do you love me like a husband loves a wife?” she said.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“I feel like we are supposed to become husband and wife,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because we are here together and alone together and we get along and there is no one else.”
“There will be others someday,” he said.
“Do you really think so?” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“I will be happy to see them,” she said.
“I won’t,” he said. “But I’ll be ready.”
It went on like this for longer than either of them realized. It was always dark, always cold. The fire gave them just enough heat and light to get by, but they didn’t allow themselves much more than that. There was no knowing how long they would have to keep it going.
They had no way of knowing for sure, which day the snow stopped. But suddenly water was running in through the hole in the window, and seeping in through the cracks in the wood and where the building’s joints were not flush or tight. It kept on like this and they soon realized that the snow was melting without pause. Which meant the sun was out. Which meant the days and nights were warming. Suddenly, the whole room would creak when Bird traveled up the stairs, so Mary made him promise to stop.
“All this snow came and held us here,” she said, “and now it’s going.”
She was smiling.
He nodded.
They slept on the two remaining tables to keep out of the damp. The floor was soggy. Their clothes would not dry. Their time in the building with the kitchen was nearly up.
Bird was the first to dig out, but only slightly. The snow outside was mere slush piled high, and little canals ran the water out into the wilderness around them. In every direction you could hear the sound of water running. He imagined himself a gunslinger, running the water out of town. He was able to get the door open, but not without letting in a considerable amount of slush. He was able then to dig a few inches out onto the porch. The snow level was near the roof now, but crumbling. Disappearing. Hightailing it. He took to the stairs though he had promised not to do so. He looked out the windows and could see the tops of trees again. He could see the tall rocks in the distance. He could smell the air the sun had touched. He could feel the sun as it broke through the glass. He followed its beam around the room. He wanted to get a sunburn. That was his goal. A sunburn on his single exposed arm. Or on his face and neck. He could feel it cooking him. He heard a fly buzzing at the window and almost burst into tears.
“We are nearly out,” said Mary.
“Nearly,” said Bird.
“What will we do?”
“We’ll leave,” he said.
“Where will we go?”
“We.”
“I will go where you go,” said Mary.
“I’m going to follow the trail that brought us here.”
“That will lead us home,” she said.
“I will keep following it, on past the ranch where I was nursed, and I will hunt down the men who put me there.”
“John killed that thing,” said Mary.
“Not that thing,” said Bird.
“Then what?”
“The men who killed my family,” said Bird.
“Are you out of your wits? You’re acting stranger than I’ve yet seen you act.”
“I’m clear-headed,” said Bird, “and I’ve a simple plan that will guide me through the next period of my life.”
“A murderous plan?”
He nodded.
“I do not approve.”
“You don’t have to.”
“As long as you know.”
“I’ve always known,” said Bird. “You do not have to speak on it.”
“Known what?”
“That you don’t approve.”
“Of what?”
“Of me. Of my plans. Of the way I think of things.”
“How do you think of them?”
“You know clearly well how I think of them and what I expect of the world.”
“Horridness and dread.”
He did not respond.
“You expect only the worst.”
He did not respond.
“You do.”
“No. But I am prepared for the worst thing. I will work against the worst thing with everything I have within me.”
“Murderously.”
“Yes.”
“But murder is that worst thing you are preparing for.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It is up there on the list of worst things then.”
“Depending on the circumstances, yes. John’s murder was a worst thing. The men who killed my family was a worst thing. The man who took Martha was a worst thing.”
“Do you know who killed your family?”
“Two men killed my family and brought me into the woods with them when I was much smaller than I am now. They tried to raise me or hold me hostage, but then they turned on me. I cannot remember everything. I will never be in that position again. I will fight that position with everything that’s within me.”
It was a line he’d drawn from one of the adventure books. There was a man who wore the same hat daily and fought evil with everything that was within him.
“You will die,” she said.
He nodded.
“And you are likely to do an accidental wrong.”
“Not if I pay attention,” he said. “And not if the world watches out for me.”
“These men,” said Mary. “What color were their hats?”
“They did not wear hats,” said Bird.
“What were their faces like? Did they have any scars?”
Bird shook his head. “I do not know.”
“How will you know them then?” she said.
“I will know the feeling of being near them.”
“I will not read you any more from those books,” she said.
“You have read enough.”
The next day, the sun broke finally from beneath the rooftop. It lit the edges of the room in which they slept. They woke to it. They wept. Time itself had freed them. They ate the jerky they had been saving. It was salty and tough, but a treat nonetheless. It stung the roofs of their mouths and puckered the edges of their lips. The sun. There it was. Mary sang a song about the sun. Bird practiced with his pistol.
Everything, then, seemed connected to her. When the snow stopped, it was because she had brought hope to the world. When the sun came out, it was to echo her filthy beauty. Brooke fed her from the desert and the stream and she held him. They did not walk together, but sat and let the snow vanish and the creek widen. The air was suddenly warm enough for exposed sleep. The stars were out. The sky was thick with them. Throughout the day, the moon was as clear as a treetop in the distance. She did not seem to sleep. She cried every so often. He slept on her, where she would let him. His head on a thigh, or a leg thrown over hers, if she was also sleeping. When she began to warble late in the night, he simply rolled away. She did not speak much. He told her what he’d found for them to eat, or how he’d caught it. Told her how to eat the spiny things, or the smallest creatures with the most delicate flavor. He was perfectly content to sit with her, day after day, in the mud and vanishing snow. It still sat atop the red rocks towering in the distance.