White Space

Scooping snow from the porch railing, she cupped it in her bare hands, grimacing at the burn. “So that’s real.” She held the snow to her nose and sniffed. Frowned. “But funky.” Snow had an odor, something that she associated with frigid, frosty, old-fashioned trays of ice cubes. This particular scent was thicker and metallic, but not aluminum. Copper? The image of Jasper’s heap of a pickup flashed in the middle of her mind. Yeah, same smell: wet, cold rust. Still, this was real snow.

And my head hurts. Brushing powder from her hands, she gingerly probed her bandaged forehead with a forefinger. Beneath the gauze and her skin, she could feel the circle of her titanium skull plate. So that, or rather she, was—

2

BLINK.

“Oh boy.” She was inside, with no memory of having opened the door. She threw a glance at the braided mat upon which she stood. Her shoes were bone-dry: no melting snow, no puddles. To her surprise, the house was a little chilly; she pressed the back of one hand to the tip of her nose. Cold as a brass button. Bet it’s red as Rudolph’s, too.

“Okay,” she breathed, and felt the house fold down a bit, crouch closer—which was … pretty crazy. Exactly like when I read The Bell Jar this past summer; felt that damn thing coming down, trapping me like a lightning bug under a jelly glass. Yet she heard nothing in the house. Not a creak. Not a crack or pop, none of the tiny settling sounds any normal house made. No hoosh of a furnace either. She threw a glance at the ceiling and then down at the floor. Whoa, no vents. No registers or radiators. So how are they heating this thing?

Except for the gleaming hardwood floor, which held this single colorful braided rug, the foyer was a white-walled cube. No pictures. No paintings. Ahead and to the left, she saw a circular flight of stairs that twisted around and around, seemingly forever. Like the barn, the too-large stairs belonged in a little kid’s fairy-tale version of a mansion or castle, and was all wrong. Another hall—black as a tomb and lined with closed doors—ran to the left of the stairs and went on a long way.

Just walls and a front door with sidelights. A hall with a lot of doors. Outside, there’s a porch, a swing, hanging planters, but no storm door. No doorbell or peephole. She threw a look back at the door. Not even a lock. Her eyes zeroed in on the smooth brass knob.

“No keyhole,” she said. “It’s just a knob. Everything’s been stripped down to the bare minimum, like the barn. Because this is all the house you need?” All the house who needs? “Maybe I’m not thinking about this the right way. Maybe”—she cocked her head at the ceiling—“maybe this is all the house needs.”

To her left, something cleared its throat with a faint sputter.

“Huh!” Clapping a hand to her mouth, she held back a scream. She could feel her eyes trying to bug out of their sockets. What was that? Coming from that gloomy corridor … Her breath was coming too hard and fast to hear over, and she raked her upper lip with her teeth, focusing on the pain. Calm down, you nut. Just … music? No. Concentrating, she worked to reel in the sound and caught a static crackle, a gabble of nonsense syllables, a sizzle and hiss.

“Radio.” The word floated on a sigh of relief. Freak yourself out, why don’t you? Or maybe a TV Bode and Chad had left on. Had there been a satellite dish on the roof? She didn’t remember one, and this house was way the hell and gone. No way it got cable. So this was more than likely a radio.

I should look for it. Eventually, they’ll give the call sign, or if I really luck out and there’s a weather band … She pushed away a sudden woozy sense of déjà vu. Hadn’t this been exactly what she’d said to Lily only a few hours ago? Well, so what if this is a weather band? This was a farm, duh; farmers cared about weather just like ships’ pilots and fishermen. If I can find the radio, I’ll know where we are.