MARE
Be ready. A man like him is always under threat. That threat is your window.
She’s right. But every morning, Anya dismantles me just a little bit more.
She’s been bringing her sketchbook to lessons. Not for art — she draws in the margins of her math work, small birds and cloud formations filling the white space around the numbers.Last Tuesday, she showed me a new one: a woman with dark hair standing at a window, a small figure beside her. She said it was us, looking at the rain.
I find myself holding back tears every day.
The house grows quieter as the week progresses. It feels like everyone knows what’s coming and has been instructed not to say so. The staff move with their eyes down. Conversations stop when I approach.
It’s beyond aggravating, but anger is cleaner than the grief, easier to function inside, so I let it do some of the heavy lifting.
Thursday morning, the air in the house has a different texture. A tautness, a pressure, as if the walls have moved inward overnight. I dress and go to Anya’s room. With her hand in mine, we walk toward the bunker stairs.
The guard closes the door behind us.
The lock engages.
I stand still for a moment, listening, and then I turn to face the room.
Anya is already at the table, arranging her pencils in chromatic order, a habit she’s gotten into since we reorganized her bedroom. She does it with focused calm.
Two hours pass, and all I can think about is that I’m trapped. Every day we’ve been here, they’ve kept the door open, with only a guard at the entrance, so why did they decide to lock us in today?
The answer is clear: it’s happening today. If I don’t act now, I don’t know when I’ll have another opportunity.
“Anya.” I keep my voice even, so it doesn’t transmit what’s running underneath it. “I need to step out for a minute. Can you be strong for me while I’m gone?”
Those pale, steady eyes reach mine. “Okay.”
One word. She trusts me completely. She trusts me so completely that she doesn’t even ask why, just saysokayand goes back to her pencils.
Guilt manifests as nausea in my stomach that radiates upward, settling in my throat until I can’t swallow.
I stare at her bent head, the careful way she arranges the yellow beside the orange, and I think,I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry this is the world you were born into, and I’m sorry I’m not brave enough to stay in it. Goodbye, my little girl.
I knock on the door.
A pause. The guard opens it. He’s young, the one I’ve seen on rotation this week, still slightly too earnest for the house he works in.
“Miss Calloway?”
I’ve prepared for this.
“I need to grab something from upstairs.” I keep my voice light, easy, the voice I use for administrative requests. “Toiletries.”
“I can send someone?—”
“They’re…” I pause, letting a flicker of discomfort cross my face. “They’re personal items. Women’s stuff.” I watch the color rise in his neck immediately, the involuntary mortification. “I’d rather just?—”
“Of course, I’ll come with?—”
“You absolutely will not.” I let my voice go cool. “Anya is alone in there. Your job is to keep her safe. I shouldn’t have to explain that to you.” I hold his gaze until he looks away. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
He hesitates before nodding.
I walk away before he can reconsider.
