Page 34 of The Last Stars in the Sky
Daniel follows him out to the garage, blinking in the late-afternoon sunlight. The house is a ranch house off by itself, not another building in sight, facing the road, which stretches emptily through cornfields, now filled with brown, withered stalks.
The man opens the garage door, the screech loud in the stillness, making Daniel tense as he waits uncertainly, having no idea what he’s going to be offered. Then the man emerges from the shadowy space, carrying a bicycle in one large hand. It is a child’s bicycle, a girl’s, with pink handlebars that have purple streamers attached, and a cushioned seat shaped like a banana, in pink and purple stripes. There is a purple, plastic basket hooked to the front, made to look like it has been woven, with a bright pink plastic flower attached to the front.
“I’ll raise the seat,” the man says, and Daniel has a sudden, wild urge to laugh. He’s going to look like a clown on that bike, his knees practically up by his ears, and yet he’s moved to a fierce tenderness for this stranger, for his inexplicable kindness.
A bicycle will, he knows, make a lot of difference. It might even make this journey possible.
“You don’t need it?” he asks, and the man gives him a look.
“You think I’d fit on this thing?”
“Your daughter…” He’s assuming they have a daughter, to have a bike like this, although he imagines she must be an adult now, judging by their age.
The man looks down at the bike, his face collapsing into sagging lines of sadness. “She lived in Chicago,” he says quietly. “Moved there just a couple of months ago, for a job.”
Chicago, hit in the first wave of strikes. The tenderness Daniel feels is now touched with a deep, abiding pity. “I’m sorry.”
The man shrugs. “We’ve all lost someone now. I hope your son is alive.”
Daniel swallows. He has not let himself consider that Sam might not be. Clarkson wasn’t near any strikes. As long as he had enough food, water…But of course there are so many dangers, not least other people. Sam might have left the college campus, gone…where?
No, he wouldn’t, Daniel decides. He remembers a time when Sam was six, maybe seven. He’d taken him to the mall, was browsing in the men’s section of Macy’s when he turned around and Sam suddenly wasn’t there. He hadn’t panicked at first, had simply strolled through the racks of suits, looking for that familiar mop of dark hair, bright hazel eyes, but Sam was nowhere to be seen. Five minutes passed, nearing ten. A gentle exasperation had morphed into alarm, then panic, fear. He’d located a security guard; they’d agreed to use the sound system to ask if anyone had seen Sam.If anyone has seen a dark-haired boy in a red T-shirt and jeans, could you please come forward…
Then Sam, trotting toward him, looking perplexed. Daniel had taken him by the shoulders, his fear turned to fury for one blazing moment. “Where were you?” he’d demanded in a raw voice. “Where did you go?”
Sam had blinked up at him, looking both confused and a little bit annoyed. “I didn’t go anywhere,” he said. “I was right next to you.You’rethe one who moved.”
Daniel had laughed and hugged his son to him. He holds that memory close now.
“Thank you for the bike,” he says to the man, and he doesn’t think he’s ever meant anything more.
He rests for the remainder of the day, knowing he needs to keep up his strength. That evening he eats dinner with the man and woman—he hasn’t asked their names, and they haven’t offered them—a hash of dried meat and root vegetables cooked over a propane stove and tasting like mushy nothing.
While they eat, the man takes out the map again, tracing the suggested route with a red felt-tip marker. “Find shelter if you can, but be careful,” he advises. “No one’s friendly, these days. Not anymore.”
You are, Daniel thinks, but he just nods, his gaze on the map, on the wavering, red line that will lead him to Sam.
The next morning, he washes in cold water drawn from a stream. He runs his hand over his face and the stubble that’s grown there. He can’t remember the last time he didn’t shave for an entire week. He supposes he will grow a beard, something he’s never done before. He dresses warmly and packs his backpack, straps his rifle over his shoulder. He no longer feels absurd, like he’s play-acting at being a survivalist, a hero. He simply feels determined.
When he comes out into the living room, the woman silently hands him a bag. It is filled with food—granola bars, beef jerky, trail mix.
Daniel starts to hand it back. “You need this—”
The woman shakes her head, implacable. A lump forms in his throat and he swallows it down. “Thank you,” he says simply.
They accompany him outside, stand by the front door as Daniel clambers onto the small bike, which is the right size for a ten-year-old girl. His knees are by his elbows, and it’s going to be incredibly difficult to pedal. He doesn’t care.
“Thank you,” he says again, and then he starts pedaling, weaving down the driveway as he adjusts to the size of the bike; his thighs are already burning, and he raises himself off the seat, to give himself a bit more leverage. He feels the gaze of the man and woman tracking him as he bikes down their drive and then turns left onto the road, toward Watertown. There is not a car, not a person, in sight—just road and sky and husk-filled cornfields, their dried stalks rustling and whispering in the frigid wind.
Improbably, as he starts down the road, his heart lifts.
THIRTEEN
“Put the butt high up on your chest, near your shoulder, and keep your elbows down. Put the stock against your cheek. Don’t touch the trigger till you’re ready to shoot. Eyes on the prize.”
I speak as if I’m an expert because I have to. Mattie takes in all my instructions, her body taut with concentration, her eyes narrowed against the white glare of the winter’s sun, focused on the tin can fifty yards away.
“Ready?” I ask, and she nods before pulling the trigger. The crack of the gun splits the still air, and the recoil makes her take a startled step back. We both blink at the target, and then I let out a whoop. She’s nicked the top of the can.
