Part Two
The Present
1
Was it a day,a week, a month?
What I know is this: I wake one morning and think,Jesus fucking Christ, it’s cold.
Then:Sorry, Lord.
Cussing like some scummy teenager is not the ideal way to start a day. Still: itiscold. Colder than usual.
And darker than usual?
Calm yourself, Natalie. A little cold never hurt anybody.
When my sister and I were little, it was a Christmas Eve tradition for my mother to tell us stories about our ancestors, how they came to America through Ellis Island, then crossed the West on horse and buggy, laying stake to the most fertile land they could find. “The days of yesteryear were not for the faint of heart,” my mother would drone on, a distant, romantic look in her eye. “Think howbraveyour great-great-great-grandparents had to be. Imagine facing down Indians with arrows. Defending your cattle from wolves. Catching fish straight from the stream. Drinking milk straight from the udder. Imagine, girls, trying to stay alive through the coldest, longest, darkest winters you can imagine, without even the dream of electricity to keep you warm.”
I’d started doing that with my own children, too. Talking about the olden days as if they were something I could speak to, when the truth was I’d never been truly cold a day in my life.
Until now.
The power is definitely out. Why isn’t the generator kicking on?
Relax.
But I can’t. My thoughts are flowing quickly. I’m wide awake from the cold, making a quick mental list of the handymen we could call to fix the power, of whom I could possibly blame for this mishap—I should investigate the warranty on the generator, it’s only fiveyearsold—and then finally I remind myself again tostop, Natalie,breathe.This is not the right time in the day to be thinking about chores. It’s the time of day to ground my thoughts in spiritual gratitude; to center myself before the blessed chaos of another day.
I give a little shiver-shake of my head, try to start again.
Thank you, Father, for Caleb. Thank you for the Inheritance. Thank you for Clementine, Samuel,Stetson—
I reach for our comforter to pull it tighter around me. Then I freeze.
This is not my comforter. My fingers are not clutching the flannel-linen hybrid duvet I bought the previous summer. Instead, I’m shivering beneath a stiff, thin quilt. Cautiously, I pull a hand out from under the covers and run my fingers across the surface, feeling what appear to be the thick tracings of hand-knitted designs. The first snake of fear slithers through me. “Caleb,” I whisper.
No response.
If my body’s clock is correct—and it always has been, every single day of my life—then it’s near-exactly six in the morning. Surely Caleb is already up and out at the barn, performing the daily milking. Surely this unrecognizable quilt is just some rag from the linen closet that the cleaner chose to use until our normal duvet was clean.
So why hasn’t my alarm gone off yet?
Panic seizes me. I lurch for the bedside table, where I leave my phone to charge each night. My hands slap air instead of smooth walnut. I fall out of the bed and onto the floor, knees cracking painfully against the hardwood. I cry out in the darkness, then clap a hand over my mouth, suddenly terrified of making a noise.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
This time, I don’t pause to apologize to the Lord. There’s no time to apologize. Slick-knived thoughts are running through my brain, each one making me gasp a little in the refrigerated quiet.
I’ve been abducted.
Kidnapped.
Someone must be here with me.
Someone is going to kill me.
I’m too young to die.
