Bird box

Leaves crinkling, she would say. A small animal, like a rabbit. Always aware that it could be something much worse. Worse even than a bear. In those days, and the days that followed, when the children were old enough to learn, Malorie trained herself as she trained them. But she would never hear as well as they one day would. She was twenty-four years old before she was able to discern the difference between a raindrop and a tap on a window, relying only on her hearing. She was raised on sight. Did this then make her the wrong teacher? When she carried leaves inside and had the children, blindfolded, identify the difference between her stepping on one and crushing one in her hand, were these the right lessons to give?

How far can a person hear?

The Boy likes fish, she knows. Often Malorie caught one in the river, using a rusted fishing pole fashioned from an umbrella found in the cellar. The Boy enjoyed watching them splash in the well bucket in the kitchen. He took to drawing them, too. Malorie remembers thinking she’d have to catch every beast on the planet and bring it home for the children to know what they looked like. What else might they like if given the chance to view it? What would the Girl think of a fox? A raccoon? Even cars were a myth, with only Malorie’s amateur drawings as reference. Boots, bushes, gardens, storefronts, buildings, streets, and stars. Why, she would have had to re-create the globe for them. But the best they got was fish. And the Boy loved them.

Now, on the river, hearing another small splash, she worries lest his curiosity inspire him to remove his fold.

How far can a person hear?

Malorie needs the children to hear into the trees, into the wind, into the dirt banks that lead to an entire world of living creatures. The river is an amphitheater, Malorie muses, paddling.

But it’s also a grave.

The children must listen.

Malorie cannot stave off the visions of hands emerging from the darkness, clutching the heads of the children, deliberately untying that which protects them.

Breathing hard and sweating, Malorie prays a person can hear all the way to safety.

four

Malorie is driving. The sisters use her car, a 1999 Ford Festiva, because there is more gas in it. They’re only three miles from home, yet already there are signs that things have changed.

“Look!” Shannon says, pointing at several houses. “Blankets over the windows.”

Malorie is trying to pay attention to what Shannon is saying, but her thoughts keep returning to her belly. The Russia Report media explosion worries her, but she does not take it as seriously as her sister. Others online are, like Malorie, more skeptical. She’s read blogs, particularly Silly People, that post photos of people taking precautions, then add funny captions beneath them. As Shannon alternately points out the window, then shields her eyes, Malorie thinks of one. It was of a woman hanging a blanket over her window. Beneath it, the caption read: Honey, what do you think of us moving the bed right here?

“Can you believe it?” Shannon says.

Malorie nods silently. She turns left.

“Come on,” Shannon says. “You absolutely have to admit, this is getting interesting.”

A part of Malorie agrees. It is interesting. On the sidewalk, a couple passes with newspaper held to their temples. Some drivers have their rearview mirrors turned up. Distantly, Malorie wonders if these are the signs of a society beginning to believe something is wrong. And if so, what?

“I don’t understand,” Malorie says, partly trying to distract her thoughts and partly gaining interest.

“Don’t understand what?”

“Do they think it’s unsafe to look outside? To look anywhere?”

“Yes,” Shannon says. “That’s exactly what they think. I’ve been telling you.”

Shannon, Malorie thinks, has always been dramatic.

“Well, that sounds insane,” she says. “And look at that guy!”

Shannon looks to where Malorie points. Then she looks away. A man in a business suit walks with a blind man’s walking stick. His eyes are closed.

“Nobody’s ashamed to act like this,” Shannon says, her eyes on her shoes. “That’s how weird it’s gotten.”

When they pull into Stokely’s Drugs, Shannon is holding her hand up to shield her eyes. Malorie notices, then looks across the parking lot. Others are doing the same.

“What are you worried about seeing?” she asks.

“Nobody knows that answer yet.”

Malorie has seen the drugstore’s big yellow sign a thousand times. But it has never looked so uninviting.

Let’s go buy your first pregnancy test, she thinks, getting out of the car. The sisters cross the lot.

“They’re by the medicine, I think,” Shannon whispers, opening the store’s front door, still covering her eyes.

“Shannon, stop it.”

Malorie leads the way to the family planning aisle. There is First Response, Clearblue Easy, New Choice, and six other brands.