Bird box

“No!” Malorie shouts, gripping the Boy and Girl. “Not the children! I’ll do it first.”

Someone else approaches. A man.

“My God,” he says. “Is it really you? Malorie?”

She recognizes a man’s dull, husky voice. Years ago, she heard this voice on the other end of a phone. She has debated, with herself, for four long years, whether or not she’d hear his voice once more.

It is Rick.

Malorie tugs at her blindfold and slowly opens her eyes, squinting against the harsh white light of the facility.

They are in a large hallway flooded with light. It is so bright that Malorie can barely keep her eyes open. It’s an enormous school. The ceilings are high, with domed light panels that make Malorie feel as though she’s outside. Tall walls reach to the ceiling and are crowded with bulletin boards. Desks. Glass cases. There are no windows, but the air feels fresh and crisp, like the outdoors. The floor is clean and cool, the hallway is brick, and very long. Turning back to Rick, she stares at his withered face and understands.

His eyes are open but they do not focus on any one thing. They loll in his head, glassy and gray, and lost their glimmer years ago. His full head of brown hair hangs long and shaggy over his ears but does not hide a deep and faded scar near his left eye. He touches it apprehensively, as if feeling Malorie’s gaze. She notices his wooden walking stick, worn and awkward, bent from some broken tree limb.

“Rick,” she says, pulling the children close behind her, “you’re blind.”

Rick nods.

“Yes, Malorie. Many of us here are. But Constance can see as clearly as you can. We’ve come a long way.”

Malorie slowly looks around at the walls, taking it all in. Handwritten banners mark the progress of their recovery, and flyers declare daily assignments for farming, water purification, and a medical evaluation timesheet, filled with appointments.

Her eyes stop above her, and in brass letters embedded in a brick arch, she reads:

JANE TUCKER SCHOOL FOR THE BLIND

“The man—” Rick pauses. “The one on the recording—he isn’t with you, is he?” Rick says.

Malorie feels her heartbeat quicken and swallows with difficulty.

“Malorie?” he says, concerned.

Constance touches Rick’s shoulder and softly whispers, “No, Rick. He isn’t with them.”

Malorie steps back, still gripping the children, moving toward the door.

“He’s dead,” she answers rigidly, scanning the hall for others. Not trusting. Not yet.

Rick begins to tap his walking stick, moving closer to Malorie, reaching out to touch her.

“Malorie—we’ve contacted many people over the years, but fewer than you might think. Who knows how many of us are alive out there? And who knows how many are sane? You’re the only person we expected to be coming down the river. That doesn’t mean nobody else could, of course, but after careful thought, we decided Tom’s voice would not only alert you to the fact that you’d arrived, but it would also let strangers know a civilization of some kind was near, if they were to get stopped by the fence first. Had I known he was no longer with you, I’d have insisted we use something else. Please, accept my apology.”

She watches him closely. His voice sounds hopeful, optimistic even. She hasn’t heard a tone of voice like his in a long time. Still, his face wears the stress and age of living in this new world just like hers does. Like the housemates once looked, years ago.

As he and Constance begin to explain how the facility operates, the fields of potatoes and squash, their harvest of berries in the summer, a means of purifying rainwater, Malorie sees a shadowy figure move behind Rick’s head.

A small group of young women emerge from a room wearing plain, light blue clothing. They tap walking sticks, their hands waving in front of them. The women move quietly, ghostly, past Malorie, and she can feel her stomach sink as she sees their cavernous, hollow eyes. She feels light-headed, sick, like she might throw up.

Where the women’s eyes should be are two enormous, dark scars.

Malorie clutches the children tighter. They bury their heads against her legs.

Constance reaches toward her, but Malorie pulls away, frantically searching for her blindfold on the ground, dragging the children with her.

“She’s seen them,” Constance says to Rick.

He nods.

“Stay away from us!” Malorie pleads. “Don’t touch us. Don’t come near us! What is going on here?!”

Constance looks over her shoulder and sees the women exiting the hall. The room is quiet except for Malorie’s panting breaths and quiet sobs.