The beam of light swung down.
There was something at the base of the steps. A small wrapped bundle of cloth.
“What the hell is this?” Helen asked. She reached out.
“Looks like a cat toy,” Nate said,
Helen picked it up. “It’s not a cat toy,” she said. It was an old piece of white fabric, something with a touch of lace or embroidery at the edge. It had once been a dainty lady’s handkerchief maybe, but now it was tattered and stained and was bundled up, the four corners pulled up and wound around with dirty string that had been tied in a neat little bow, like a present. There was something inside the bundle. Something hard.
Her stomach clenched.
“Why don’t you bring it inside and we’ll take a look?” Nate suggested.
“I’m not bringing it inside,” Helen said. “No way is it coming into the house.”
She held the bundle, fingers plucking at the string, thinking she just needed to give it a tug, unwrap it, see what was inside, but did she really want to know?
No. She did not. She did not want to see what was inside.
Whatever it was, it was awful. She knew that. She could feel it: danger flowing through her fingers like venom from a sting.
“You want me to open it?” Nate said.
“No,” Helen told him. “I can do it.”
The bundle, she believed, had been left for her. For her, because she was the one who’d heard the scream.
She took a deep breath, reminded herself that she was the new Helen. The Helen who was going to live in Vermont and build her own house, learn to kill her own chickens, wield an ax, grow her own food. Helen with the strength of the pioneers. The brave Helen. She could do this.
She tugged on the string, untied it, gently pulled back the folds to see what was inside as Nate shone the light on it.
“What the fuck?” Helen gasped, nearly dropping the bundle (not just dropping it, but throwing it to the ground, trying to get it as far away from her as possible).
But she held tight.
There was a bit of dried grass making a small nest, and in the center, two objects rested: a rusted old square nail and a yellowy-white tooth.
Nate leaned in, reached for the tooth. “A molar,” he said. “From an ungulate.”
“A what?” Helen said.
“A sheep or a deer, maybe.”
“Well, what’s it doing all wrapped up on our front steps?” Helen demanded.
Nate thought a minute, rubbed at the stubble on his chin, which made a faint scratching noise. “I don’t know,” he said, leaning back in and picking up the nail. “This is old. Looks like hand-forged iron.”
“Again, I ask, ‘What the hell is it doing on our front steps?’ ” Helen said.
“Maybe it was here all along,” Nate suggested. “In the trailer. And we kicked it out.”
Helen shook her head. “We cleaned. We swept. We would have noticed it.”
“Maybe it’s a gift,” Nate said.
“A gift from whom? Who would leave us something like this?” Her voice rose in pitch, alarmed but not quite hysterical. She wondered how Nate could be so calm—as if someone had left a batch of welcome-to-the-neighborhood muffins on their front steps.
Nate rubbed his stubble again.Scratch, scratch, scratch.“Someone who’s trying to freak us out?” He looked at her, saw the mounting panic on her face, and pulled her into a tight embrace.
