Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

“Em! Time for dinner!”

From atop the bed, Emma looked over her knees to the door. Her will fought what felt to be a nest of rats chewing at her insides, but the growl that bubbled from her guts spoke of larger creatures.

“I’m not hungry.”

Past the door, her father sighed.

“Now, I know that’s not true. We were on the road for—”

Emma leaned forward. “How long?”

Searching the room, she realized she’d been too absorbed in the insanity of the situation to look for a clock. “Dad?”

A tiny vibration trembled through the door as her father either leaned against it or rested his hand against the wood.

“It was a long trip, honey.”

“How long?”

Emma imagined her father fussing with his moustache.

“Seventeen hours.”

“Seventeen hours?” Emma was off the bed and pacing to the door. Her hand was nearly on the knob before she relented. Images of her friends’ faces, her town, flitted across her mind like photographs. Their presence felt every bit as distant.

Jesus . . . I was out for that long?

She rubbed her arm.

And the dose of whatever he gave me was that exact?

The next question slipped out of her mouth, but it was directed at herself rather than her father.

“Where the hell are we?”

The feet beyond the door scuffed. “Wisconsin.”

Emma blinked, trying to conjure the state’s position in her head. While the U.S. map in her brain was fuzzy, the length of the mental line cutting from point to point was accurate enough to frighten her. She finally opened the door, looking up at her father and hoping she was wrong.

“But that’s . . . halfway across the country, isn’t it?”

Her father closed his eyes. His fingers massaged the bridge of his nose, making his glasses jump when he nodded.

Emma stared at him, the shapes of states she’d never even stepped foot in flashing past her eyes.

Of course. It was seventeen fucking hours. Where else would we have ended up?

She fought the ache in her head, her heart, and tried to find the old familiarity in her father’s face. Emma pleaded with it while she rubbed her wrist, remembering how her mothers had slowed until it disappeared.

“Daddy . . . I want to go home.”

He tried to smile, but something about the way his lips stretched distorted the presentation into a wince. Her father bent, placing a hand on each of her shoulders.

“Em, I know it’s hard to accept, but this is home now. We just have to make the best of it.”

Emma broke eye contact and looked down at her shoes. Through the shutter, Emma heard the wind whistle past the window. She didn’t know if the chill worming through her came from the sound or her father’s touch.

“You said to come in and warm up earlier. I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

Her father’s hand slipped off her and back to his side. An unpleasant tingle stayed behind.

“It’s a big adjustment. I understand that. Really. But this place will grow on you if you give it some time.”

Emma cursed the growl rising in her stomach. This time, her father did manage a smile.

“Meanwhile, why don’t we put that beast to bed? It’ll give us a chance to talk.”

Don’t you mean, “listen?”

Still, the hunger decided her. The ache inside was becoming a full-on cramp. She followed her father down the hall and around the corner into a fully stocked kitchen. Cans and canisters with handwritten labels lined shelves from floor to ceiling. The sink was retro, but the stove looked more advanced than the one in their house. One burner glowed red-hot while something bubbled in a pot atop the range. The smell of fresh chili got Emma’s mouth watering.

Ugh . . . why does he have to be such a good cook?

Emma slid into a chair, allowing her father to fill the bowl in front of her. She didn’t bother blowing on it, letting the liquid scald her tongue on the way in. The bowl was half-empty by the time her father spoke, the half-smile on his face spreading wider.

“Not so bad, huh?”

He hummed a few notes before popping a spoonful of chili into his mouth. Emma’s chewing slowed while he continued, smacking his lips between bites.

“We’re totally self-sufficient here. Off the grid. About the only real problem is keeping the pipes from freezing. You wouldn’t believe how much insul—”

“Stop it.” The chili went down Emma’s throat like battery acid. “Just. Stop.”

“Stop what?”

Emma swirled the spoon in her bowl. “Pretending like we’re on vacation. Some family trip. You kidnapped me. Drugged me! And took me how many hundreds of miles away from my friends, our house . . . ” She shook her head. “Everything.”

Her father shifted in his chair. “Only because—”

“I know! I know . . . what you said in the car. The end of the world, socio-economic . . . something! But where’s all this awful stuff we’re running from? Where’s the proof?”

Her father took off his glasses, folding them and placing them neatly on the table.

“Honey, Rome wasn’t built in a day, but it damn near fell in one.” He stared into his bowl, the lines near his eyes deepening. “This country isn’t any better. Debt, inflation, militarized police, wars that never really end . . . we’ve been circling the toilet for a long time. We’re just . . . due.” He lifted his haunted gaze to her own. “I managed to get us out days—maybe hours—before the whole world came down on our heads. Isn’t that better than fighting tooth and nail through a mob of crazy people?”

Emma abandoned the spoon, her hand balling into a fist.

“So how long do we wait, then? A month? A year? How long would it take for you to realize those guys you talk to are full of shit?”

Her father raised his finger at her. “Don’t—”

“What, Dad? Call them out on it after all . . . this?” Her fingernails bit deeper into her palm. “What else did you expect me to do?”

Her father pushed his own bowl of chili away, a disgusted look on his face. He rested his chin on his hand when he looked back at her, frustration in his eyes.

“What would it take, Em? To make you understand? To work with me a little?”

Emma noticed a clock affixed to the wall, the second hand ticking down.

“I want a time limit. And not a crazy one, either. If we make it through that and nothing happens, I want your word we’ll go back home and you’ll never do something like this to me again.”

Her father glared at her, his lips going thin. “Six months.”

“One.”

“Four. My final offer.”

The faces of her friends—her life—retreated down a long, dark tunnel.

But it’ll still be there. Waiting for me . . . right? She bit her lip. And I bet I could get hold of the car keys in just a few weeks if I’m careful enough. Her foot twitched against the leg of her chair. God, I can’t believe I’m doing this . . .

Emma met his gaze, flinching only when a blast of frigid air dragged a chorus of creaks from the roof. She fancied she could feel the cold settling in her bones.

“Deal.”