I knew he was hiding something, and I was afraid whatever it was would change everything. But it hasn’t. I know who Andrew is and I know he’s a good person.
And I know that I need him, too.
We sit in silence for a moment, then I stand up. “All right, then.” I hold out my hand to him. “Let’s go.”
Andrew looks down the road toward the house in question, then back at his paper. It looks like he isn’t so sure he wants to face them. I can’t tell what scares him more: to find the family there, alive and well, or the other option.
Either way, I don’t think it will help his guilt. I know it wouldn’t do anything with mine. It’s why I could never pull the trigger on that gun. No matter how much my mom screamed and cried. I didn’t kill her; the flu did. I didn’t cause her pain, so the guilt that came from her suffering could never be worse than the guilt that would come with killing her.
All I can do to help Andrew is hold his hand and be here with him. And tell him that I need him. Because I do. He puts the paper back in his bag and takes my hand. I pick up his pack and hand it to him, trying to psych myself up to just say the words: “I need you, too.”
But the words stop in my throat like a ball of iron.
“Whatever happens,” I tell him, “I’m here.” It’s all I can get out.
He wipes the tears from his eyes and we head down Lieper Street. Heading for what might be Andrew’s final stop. The idea fills me with a sudden dread.
I’m not going to let them hurt him. If they try to take vengeance for what he did—for protecting himself—I’ll protect him.
Again, my body tenses with fear.
I told him whatever happens, and I mean it.
But the front of number 4322 does not bode well for us.
Dead leaves litter the front yard, the grass crushed beneath them. Weeds strong enough to burst through the leaf barrier are scattered throughout the lawn. There’s a small pink Fisher-Price trike with wet brown leaves on its seat. A rubber ball is by the front porch, half-flat. The front gate is thick plastic that’s cracked around stress points. I look at Andrew’s face. He looks determined. I want to ask him what he’s hoping for, but I’m also scared to know.
He opens the gate. Neither of us has our weapons out. My pack is over the rifle at my back. Andrew’s gun is at his side, buckled into its holster. I want to find the family all alive. I want Emily and Katie to have blonde hair that they braid each night. I want Diane Foster to have a hunting rifle that she’s used to defend her children from escaped zoo animals. I want Marc to be growing rows of vegetables in the backyard and collecting rainwater like Henri. I want Andrew to be able to tell them what happened with their parents and I want them to tell him that it’s all right, that all is forgiven.
Even if it isn’t.
“Hello?” Andrew calls out from the bottom of the front steps. “We’re here to see Marc and Diane Foster. I knew Marc’s parents, George and Joanne.”
No one opens the door. Andrew walks up the steps to the front porch and knocks on the door. I flank him, looking into the windows. They aren’t boarded up like Henri’s. Andrew knocks again but no one answers; there isn’t a sound inside the house.
Andrew turns the doorknob and the front door opens. The house smells stale and musty. There’s a thick layer of dust over everything, even the floor. I follow Andrew inside, taking the flashlight from his pack without him asking me to do so.
“Hello?” he calls out. “We aren’t here to hurt you. Marc, I knew your parents, George and Joanne. They sent me here to see you.”
I want to tell him that’s not a good way of putting it, but I’m starting to think it doesn’t matter. I run the flashlight over everything. None of it’s been touched in months.
We search the first floor. Andrew doesn’t call out again—eitherhe thinks they aren’t here or he’s thinking what I’m thinking. I open the fridge, but it’s empty. That’s a good sign; they could have taken whatever they needed with them when they left. The backyard is overgrown. No veggies or barrels collecting rainwater.
I follow Andrew upstairs. He pushes open the bedroom door at the top of the stairs. Before I even point the flashlight inside, I see him slump against the door. It’s a little girl’s room. There are no toys on the floor but there is a stuffed animal on top of the bed, next to a long, thin lump. The blanket is pulled over what looks like a small body.
I reach for Andrew’s arm, pulling him back, and we shut the door. The second bedroom is empty; there are toys on the ground. Maybe the rest of the family left. The bathroom is empty as well. We go to the front bedroom; the door is open. On the large king-size bed are two adults, their arms wrapped around a little girl. Their clothing is loose and moth-eaten, their skin tight against their bones, their lips pulled back over their teeth in mocking grimaces.
Andrew drops to his knees, sliding against the doorjamb to the dusty floor. If he’s crying, it’s silent. I turn off the flashlight and lean down to him.
“Give me your hand,” I say. He doesn’t move. I reach for him, pulling on his arm. “Come on. There’s nothing we can do. Let’s go downstairs. We’ll figure out our next move tomorrow.”
“They’re dead.” I can’t tell if he is relieved or devastated, and I don’t want to ask.
“I know. Come on.” He still doesn’t move. I bend over and use all my strength to get him on his feet. When he finally stands, we walk down the stairs together. Andrew sits on the couch and a puff ofdust blows up around him. He drops his pack on the floor, kicks off his shoes, and turns his back to me, pulling his legs up into the fetal position.
I put my hand on his back. I’m not even sure if it’s helping him, but he doesn’t try to buck me away, so I leave it.
I watch him and I wait for him to speak, but his breath deepens as he drifts to sleep. I am scared to sleep. I don’t want him to wake up and do anything rash. I don’t think he realizes how important he is to me.
