Bird box

“Malorie,” Rick begins, “it’s how we used to do things. We had to. There was no other choice. When we arrived here, we were starving. Like forgotten settlers in a foreign, hostile land. We didn’t have the amenities we have now. We needed food. So we hunted. Unfortunately, we didn’t have the security we have now, either. One night, while a handful were out, searching for food, a creature got in. We lost many people that night. A mother, who one moment was completely rational, snapped and killed four children in a fit of rage. It took us months to recover, to rebuild. We vowed to never take that risk again. For the good of the whole community.”

Malorie looks to Constance, who has no scars.

“It wasn’t a matter of choice,” Rick continues. “We blinded ourselves with whatever we had—forks, kitchen knives, our fingers. Blindness, Malorie, was the absolute protection. But that was the old way. We don’t do that anymore. After a year, we realized we’d fortified this place enough to lighten this awful burden on our shoulders. So far, we’ve had no security lapses.”

Malorie thinks of George and his video, the failed experiments. She remembers how she almost blinded her children in an act of sacrificial desperation.

Constance can see. She isn’t blind. Had you found the courage four years ago, Malorie thinks, who knows what would have happened to you. To the children.

Rick leans on Constance for support.

“If you had been here, you would understand.”

Malorie is frightened. But she does understand. And in her desperation, she wants to trust these people. She wants to believe she has led the children somewhere better.

Turning, she catches a reflection of herself in an office window. She hardly resembles the woman she once was, when she checked the flatness of her belly in the bathroom, as Shannon shouted about the news on the television in the other room. Her hair is thin, matted, and caked with dirt and the blood of so many birds. Her scalp, raw and red, is visible in patches. Her body is gaunt. The bones in her face have shifted—her delicate features have been replaced with sharp and angular ones—her skin tight and sallow. She opens her mouth slightly to reveal a chipped tooth. Her skin is bloodied, bruised, and pale. The deep gash from the wolf mars her swollen arm. Still, she can see that something powerful burns within the woman in the glass. A fire that has propelled her for four and a half years, that demanded she survive, that commanded her to make a better life for her children.

Exhausted, free from the house, free from the river, Malorie falls to her knees. She pulls away the blindfolds from the children’s faces. Their eyes are open, blinking and straining against the bright lights. The Boy and Girl stare in awe, quiet and unsure. They do not understand where they are and look to Malorie for guidance. This is the first place they have seen outside the house in their entire lives.

Neither cries. Neither complains. They stare up at Rick, listening.

“Like I said,” Rick says cautiously, “we’re able to do a lot of things here. The facility is much bigger than this hall implies. We grow all of our own food and have managed to capture a few animals. There’s chickens for fresh eggs, a cow for milk, and two goats we’ll be able to breed. One day soon we hope to go in search of more animals, to build a little farm.”

She breathes deep and looks at Rick for the first time with hope.

Goats, she thinks. Other than fish, the children have never seen a living animal.

“At Tucker, we’re completely self-sufficient—we’ve got a whole medical team dedicated to rehabilitating those who are blind. This place should bring you some peace, Malorie. It does for me every day.”

“And you two,” Constance says, kneeling by the children. “What are your names?”

It’s as if this is the first time the question has ever mattered to Malorie. Suddenly there is room in her life for such luxuries as names.

“This,” Malorie says, placing a bloodied hand on the Girl’s head, “this is Olympia.”

The Girl looks at Malorie quickly. She blushes. She smiles. She likes it.

“And this,” Malorie says, pressing the Boy to her body, “is Tom.”

He grins, shy and happy.

On her knees, Malorie hugs her children and cries hot tears that are better than any laughter she’s ever felt.

Relief.

Her tears flow freely, softly, as she thinks of her housemates working together to bring water from the well, sleeping on the living room floor, discussing the new world. She sees Shannon, laughing, finding shapes and figures in the clouds, curious with warmth and kindness, doting on Malorie.

She thinks of Tom. His mind always working, solving a problem. Always trying.

She thinks of his love for living.