Unbury Carol: A Novel

Harrows, situated at the northernmost point of the Trail, savored its distance from the meat of the rabid road. It was easily the most affluent town in both counties; the homes of Harrows were larger, often constructed of stately stone, some with as many as ten bedrooms. The garden yards were as wide as the fabled Trail itself, some roofs as high as the willows. Even better: Harrows enjoyed more sunlight than the other towns, as the shadows cast by the arching of those willows concluded where the wheat fields began, just south of the border. Sunny and secluded, remote and rich, Harrows was a very desirable place to live.

But that didn’t preclude its citizens dying.

John Bowie found this out the bad way.

One of a kind, Carol Evers said, standing beside her husband, Dwight, looking into the open grave of her friend John Bowie. The tears in her eyes reflected the unboxed man below.

One of Harrows’s most likable men, Bowie was a very funny thinking-man who added to every affair he attended. His lively eyes often smiled behind his thick glasses, and his ceaseless appetite was welcomed by all who had spent an afternoon cooking for a party.

John Bowie was a good man.

John Bowie was a fun man.

John Bowie was also a homosexual who posed no threat to Dwight Evers, Bowie being the closest friend Carol had.

For this, Bowie was the only person outside her husband whom Carol had told of her lifelong condition.

It wasn’t an easy thing for her to reveal.

And yet it had come out of her, so easily, one clear evening on the back porch of her and Dwight’s home. John had been discussing books and magic tricks, two of his most profound interests, when Carol suddenly rose from the bench and told him.

I’ve died before, John. Many times.

Though famous for a healthy sense of humor, John wasn’t one to take such a statement lightly. And Carol’s green eyes often betrayed when she was serious.

Tell me, he’d said, his boots resting upon a wooden stool, his body hunched in a wicker chair. It was Carol’s favorite posture he assumed. Perhaps that was what loosened her lips. Tell me about every single time.

And Carol did tell John Bowie about every time she’d died, every time she could remember. The doctors, she said, had no name for her condition. But she’d come up with one of her own many years ago.

Howltown, she’d said. That’s what I started calling it around age eight. I guess I was influenced by the names of the Trail-towns. The only places I knew of. And it is something of a town. To me. No sheriff, of course. No boardwalk, no bank, no booze. No nothing. But it’s a place, here on the Trail, all the same. Even if I’m the only one who visits. She’d paused. John noticed an odd combination of expressions on her face; Carol was both recalling her youth, when she named her coma, and despairing that it still existed. To someone outside the coma, she continued, I appear…dead. Hardly a heartbeat. Far from fogging a mirror. And a pulse as slow as a slug. There’s no light in there, John. I can hear the world around me, but I can’t move. And the wind in there…it howls. So…Howltown. Pretty neat, huh?

She told John how afraid she once was of the isolation of the coma. How her mother Hattie’s constant tinkering in the workroom acted as an anchor to reality. Without Hattie, I’d have broken in there. Gone mad.

She told him of the hoarse breathing that acted as music in Howltown. And how Hattie said it must be Carol’s own. She told John about the falling sensation, too.

From the second it starts, I’m falling. I fall into the coma and I don’t touch ground until I wake.

John could see the relief in the face of his brilliant friend as she spoke. Carol, John knew, hadn’t told anybody but Dwight. She was embarrassed over it, he surmised, convinced that her condition would be considered a burden and send most running. Carol had intimated that someone had run from her before. John listened closely and had ideas of his own. And as he spoke Carol realized why she had suddenly decided to confide in someone other than her husband. It wasn’t only for safety’s sake, though that played a major part, for what if Dwight were to die while Carol was inside the coma? Who would know that she still lived?

But telling John Bowie had just as much to do with Carol’s desire to hear what he thought of it.

John had many things to say. John was as bright as Howltown was dark.

And now John Bowie was dead.

Lying barefoot in a gray suit on the bumpy dirt six feet beneath Carol’s yellow shoes, John had been taken by the Illness, knew his death was afoot, and had asked for no box. Carol herself had seen to it that her naturalist friend, Harrows’s resident pantheist, would decay the way he wanted to.

Directly into the dirt.

He looks a bit like he…fell right into the hole, Dwight whispered to Carol, the couple shoulder-to-shoulder. Carol’s yellow dress flapped in a breeze that didn’t seem to reach her husband’s black suit.

It’s what he wanted, Carol whispered. And her voice sounded much older than the thirty-eight years she was.

The funeral director Robert Manders stood at a podium at the head of Bowie’s grave, telling the grievers what they already knew. A brilliant mind, an enthusiast, a thirst for knowledge in all subjects…

Carol thought of John performing simple magic tricks at parties. Making olives vanish. Pulling plums from the ears of drunk women. She tried to smile but couldn’t bring herself to do it.

In the end, Dwight whispered, no magic trick can save you.

What?

It’s sad, Dwight said. That’s all.

You two have as much in common as I do with a ladies’ man, John once told Carol. You know he married you for your money, right?

But Carol hadn’t liked that joke and told him as much.

Dwight nodded across the grave to his colleague Lafayette. Carol caught the gesture. Of all the people Dwight associated with, the woman Lafayette was perhaps the least likable. Her gut hung proudly over her black belt and tested the silver buttons of her white wool shirt. A cemetery wind toyed with her long ponytail, sending it flapping across the deep wrinkles in her face. She’d always looked something like a witch to Carol, and Carol couldn’t imagine a single sentence that might’ve been exchanged between the pompous, dubious prig and the amazing man John Bowie who lay barefoot in his gray suit on his back below.

Perhaps self-conscious of the unboxed man, conservative Manders concluded his eulogy more quickly than Carol expected. Then again, Bowie’s entire life had concluded more quickly than Carol expected. The Illness, she knew, was something to be scared of. Yet for a woman who had died many times, Carol was perhaps less afraid than most.

Hell’s heaven, Dwight said. I can hardly stomach this.

Carol brought her lips close to her husband’s ear. Dwight. Shut up.

It was no secret Dwight had as little in common with John as did the witch Lafayette. Normally this bothered Carol deeply. How was it she’d married a man who didn’t see the shine in her brilliant, favorite friend? How was it John couldn’t make Dwight laugh? How was it—

But today was no day to be upset with Dwight.

And yet the couple were on hard times indeed.

It’s because he doesn’t ask questions like I do, John once said. Carol could almost hear his voice now. He’s more bull than man, and that’s coming from a friend with a lot of turkey in him.

John was always making jokes. But more important, always making Carol laugh.

She looked to his lips just as the gravediggers Lucas and Hank shoveled dirt upon his chest and chin. Then, with her mind’s ear, Carol heard him say something he had never actually said while living. Something he would probably say now if he could.

Who else are you gonna tell now? Someone needs to know. What if you slipped into the coma right now and Dwight somehow died while you were in there? You need a safety valve, Carol. Security. I’m gone now. Do my ghost and the ghost of your mother a favor: Tell someone else.

We need to tell someone else, Carol suddenly whispered. Dwight turned to face her.

Tell someone else what?

As Manders closed his book of notes, as Lucas and Hank covered Bowie’s head completely, Carol closed her eyes and repeated herself. We need to tell someone else.

Come on, dear, Dwight said, tugging her elbow as the other grievers started to move from the graveside. Let’s discuss this at home.

But did Dwight know what she meant? She couldn’t be sure. And why not? Her mother, Hattie, would’ve known. Hattie would already be sawing the pieces for her plan B. John would’ve known, too.

Dwight nodded a good day to Lafayette and led Carol to the cemetery grass. What is it? he asked.

Carol began walking toward their coach.

What is it? he repeated.

"What is it? A good friend has died. That’s what it is."

My heart is as heavy as yours, Dwight said, catching up.

Though Carol hated to hear it, John was often right about Dwight. And recently Dwight had changed. Ten, five, even three years ago he would be holding her hand, an arm draped over her shoulders, discussing the very topic she wanted him to address.

John Bowie was dead. Someone else needed to know about Howltown.

And yet talking about her condition was one of the hardest things for Carol Evers to do.

She had been spurned before.

Inside the coach she spoke her mind. And the argument began.

Now nobody knows, she said, juggling the sorrow of losing John and the fear of being vulnerable once more.

Knows what, dear? Dwight looked as lost as a wolf cub with no pack.

I’m talking about my condition.

Dwight nodded. But Carol couldn’t tell what the nod meant.

And now nobody knows, he said.

Someone other than you needs to. If not…there’s a very real risk of my being mishandled.

Dwight laughed.

Carol, stunned, sat up straighter. Why are you laughing?

What are the chances, Carol? What are the chances that you’d slip into a coma right now, and that I would then drop dead while you were inside?

The way he said it, Carol felt a little embarrassed for being so angry. And yet…

If there’s one thing Hattie taught me, it was not to waste a second when it comes to this. We need to tell someone. A doctor can’t even detect a pulse when I’m in there. And hell’s heaven, Dwight, you should have brought this up yourself.

I’m sorry, Carol. Who do you want to tell?

Carol heard the distant echo of hoarse breathing. Or perhaps it was the actual horses taking them home.

Farrah.

The maid girl?

Yes.

I don’t think I agree. You tell her and everybody’s going to know.

So what?

Well, it’s you who keeps it secret. I’m just thinking of you, dear.

But he wasn’t. Carol could tell.

Farrah is perfect, Carol said. She’s bright. She’s kind. And she’s close.

Her husband, Clyde, is a drunk. Loose lips.

Well then, that’s how it will be. And everybody will know.

Are you…are you sure?

Yes. She thought of John Bowie. Whereas Hattie thought it wise to keep it a secret (they’ll take advantage of you, Carol, men from the Trail), John encouraged her to let everyone in: In the end, people are kinder than you think, Carol. Even the ones you thought were not. Yes. I’m absolutely sure.

But Dwight could tell she wasn’t. Carol had suggested others before.

As the coach rolled rocky over stones in the road, Dwight adopted a more serious posture. He placed a hand upon hers.

Do you…feel it coming on?

Some of the steam of the argument was released. Dwight sounded concerned after all.

I don’t know.

They rode in silence with this between them: the knowledge that Dwight believed her comas were caused by stress. Her many adamant refutations that they were not.

She’d gone under when Hattie died, yes, but she’d also gone many times when, it appeared, life was fine.

Home, inside, the discussion picked up again.

Do you plan on telling her yourself, tonight, on your walk through the garden?

Dwight removed his suit coat and hung it in the foyer closet. Carol crossed her arms. Her eyes, damp with half-shed tears, reflected the lit candle on the credenza.

How about this, she said. "If I haven’t told Farrah by the next time I go under, I’d very much like you to tell her. She nodded. As if Dwight telling Farrah was easier than Carol doing it herself. Because, after all, it was. You can bring her into the bedroom and show me to her in person. Have her feel my pulse. Show her how…dead I am. And yet…still living."

Dwight nodded. This was more like Carol. Unsure after all.

I promise, he said. He wondered if Carol heard humoring in his voice.

The next time it happens, let Farrah in.

I promise.

Then, for Carol, the front door beyond her husband rippled. A slight rising wave from bottom to top.

She heard the hoarse breathing of Howltown.

Ripples didn’t always mean the coma was coming, but no coma had ever come without them.

Maybe you should take it easy tonight, Dwight said. No walk.

Carol saw real concern on his face. She stepped to him and kissed his forehead.

Don’t plan so much, Dwight. She placed a fingertip between his eyes. It’s as if you’ve got an entire scene in there, the way things are supposed to play out, and you don’t want anything to change that.

Dwight half smiled. Just worried, dear.

Carol left the foyer and found Farrah in the parlor.

I’m sorry, Farrah said. About your friend. By the way Farrah was doing nothing in the parlor, not a strand of her brown hair out of place, Carol understood that she’d been listening to the discussion.

How much had she heard?

Let’s walk, Carol said, and her voice betrayed her sorrow. The air will do us some good.

Outside, the sky was graying, but enough blue endured to show the pair the paths that wound through the perennials, the fruit-sprouting shrubs, the primary colors of the Evers estate. This, Carol knew well, was the sweet time. For as wonderful as the flowers looked under the sun, there was no debating the beauty of the grounds by storm.

And a storm, Carol saw, was coming.

Carol, Farrah said, and Carol knew what the girl was going to say. I confess I overheard some of your conversation with Mister Evers.

Pebbles crunched under Farrah’s plain shoes and Carol’s boots.

Yeah? And what did you hear?

Carol wanted Farrah to have heard it all. Then, just as suddenly, she didn’t.

Only…a handful of words. Farrah stopped walking and breathed deep. I heard you telling him that it was time you told me…something?

Carol stared long into the girl’s face. Her wide brown eyes spoke less of wonder and more of youth.

Yes, Carol said. But maybe…not just yet. Let’s walk.

Carol then sensed the ripple coming strong and looked up, expecting to see it inches from her eyes.

Carol?

I feel a little strange, she said as the pair reached the bottom of a limestone stairwell.

Carol, we ought to bring you back inside if that’s how you feel.

Carol raised a flat palm. Not in peril, Farrah. Just…odd. Sad for my friend John.

Farrah looked to her lady’s face, and Carol felt her looking. The girl was as sweet as a range rider brownie, Carol liked to say, and as much a friend as any in her life. Maybe, Carol weighed, it was time, the perfect time to tell her.

Not just yet, she thought, looking out over the flowers and plants, searching for evidence of that ripple. She wanted to tell Farrah, but it was not easy.

She’d been spurned once before.

A change of subject was in order.

How is Clyde? Carol asked, the sadness in her voice apparent.

At not quite twenty years old, the girl had a love life that seemed so much more tangible than Carol’s own. In a peaceful yet longing way Carol guessed the majority of her own explosive life-moments had already happened. Arguments that lasted deep into the morning hours, love that shouldn’t have been, great emotions, terrible emotions, words plucked from snowy peaks, conversations without end, and decisions that were made without the knowledge of their influence. But Farrah spoke of her problems with the endearing air of one who believed her trouble to be the trouble of the world, her decisions planetary, her disappointments red with imaginary bloodshed. Carol enjoyed very much hearing that the world was still on fire, every wave in the water a killer, every moon the shape of hysterics.

John liked the very same things.

"Clyde is…Clyde."

Carol gasped as a ripple seemed to pass over the dirt at their feet. For a moment it looked as if her boot tips were underwater.

Maybe we should head back, Farrah said, concerned.

But a second ripple came. Bigger than the first.

Carol stumbled and reached for Farrah’s shoulder.

Okay, Farrah said, the bits she’d heard of the conversation echoing in her head. Time to take you inside.

She took Carol’s hand and led her out of the garden.

You know, Carol said, trying to ease the moment, seeing her young friend’s worried profile as they walked back toward the house. I had moments like you had with Clyde when I was your age.

Really? Farrah asked, happy Carol was talking, though her lady was breathing hard. Tell me?

Have you heard of…James Moxie?

The outlaw? Maybe, but…

Yes, Carol said. That’s him.

Farrah stopped and turned to face her, her eyes and mouth perfect circles in her flushed face. Despite the funereal day, the news was flammable.

"You kissed an outlaw, Carol?"

Well, he wasn’t an outlaw back when I knew him. His ‘glory’ came years after. Hattie met him.

What?

He came over one night.

"What? James Moxie was at your house? Met your mom?"

Carol pivoted, turning her face from Farrah. By talking about James Moxie she’d inadvertently reminded herself of something that felt very meaningful to her then.

There was someone else who knew about her condition.

Someone other than Dwight. Someone who had run from her, twenty years ago, unable to shoulder the burden of caring for a woman who died so often.

There is someone else who knows. She said the words aloud to herself. But of course Farrah heard them.

Who knows what, Carol?

Carol shook her head, shooing the revelation away. Perhaps storing it.

"Well, it was something, I suppose. Our brief run. I believe he’s down in Mackatoon now. I can’t be sure."

Do you mean it was more than a kiss?

That’s not what I meant, digger, but yes, it was something.

How much of something?

Carol shook her head, shooing Farrah away. They were on the lawn now, nearing the house.

One day, Carol, one day when you’re not feeling so odd, you are going to tell me the whole story and I am going to listen. Oh, am I going to listen to that one!

Carol smiled, and the heartbreak she felt for having lost John Bowie showed all the way through.

Oh, Carol. I’m sorry.

Carol pulled open the creaky wooden back door, and the two stepped inside. Before shutting it, Carol looked to the garden, to the stone steps and the many paths beyond.

Farrah, she said, I would very much like to tell you something.

Farrah turned and saw her lady in the doorframe, still looking away from her. What is it?

Without turning to face her, Carol said, I have a condition, Farrah. A sickness, you might say. It doesn’t knock often, but when it does I’ve no power not to let it in.

As she spoke the words, she saw it.

The rise and fall of the horizon, the woods beyond the gardens, the gardens themselves.

She took hold of the wooden doorframe and braced herself for the wave.

The pond appeared to rise with it.

Carol?

The plants in the garden trembled, the bees dropped to the grass. Even the garden statues and the stone steps were made to move, stomping violence into the earth.

Carol?

It arrived at her boots, distorted the leather, rattled the hem of her dress.

Hell’s heaven, Farrah. It’s here.

Then Carol collapsed. And Farrah’s scream followed Carol into Howltown.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

And the winds came at her. And the darkness was absolute.

Carol retained a vivid image of the back door’s threshold coming at her as she collapsed, felt the forever-sensation of falling. She knew it well. When she was a little girl the free fall was the scariest part. Now she’d try to heed her mother’s three-decade-old advice:

Think of it as flying. More fun than falling.

And John Bowie’s more abstract slant:

If you accept the falling as normal, it can become its own solid ground.

But John was drunk when he said it. And John had never been to Howltown.

Unless, Carol thought, Howltown is like being dead and being dead is like Howltown.

The feeling, the falling, would last until she woke, it always did, until her feet found solid ground in the form of opening her eyes, as her heart resumed its natural beat, as her lips parted and she could speak once again. But it was always a very long time till then.

Dwight’s the only one who knows.

Thoughts were indistinguishable from speech in the coma. Thoughts were as loud as the voices of others. And this particular thought wasn’t entirely true. James Moxie knew. It was why he’d run from her so long ago. And yet what good was it, Moxie knowing? How would he, a person glued firmly to her past, ever learn of her being in trouble, if into trouble she ever fell?

Stop worrying. Please. You’ll land in a few days. Like always.

She heard the familiar labored breathing, the hoarse wheeze Hattie told her must be her own. Carol had heard it faintly all day. But it was more definitive now. Just as the color black itself was more complete than her memory of it; as if a child had colored a whole piece of paper, colored it…

All black…

Carol thought of Farrah’s expression just as the last ripple hit, the anticipation of a secret about to be shared. Over the duration of Farrah’s employ, Carol had gone under twice, and with each turn Dwight had asked for privacy as his lady had taken ill. But as good a man as any of the staff thought him to be, they also knew he was no doctor. Farrah and the other employees of the house had their questions as to what was wrong with Carol Evers. And the rumor mills never pumped so furiously as they did in the kitchens and gardens of finer homes.

The hoarse breathing continued steadily, and Carol thought of John Bowie. As if, in death, he had access to the coma. As if she could hear his lifeless lungs continuing to pump air to his lifeless body.

John!

John used to brainstorm solid surfaces Carol might be able to hang on to in the coma. Reach out, if you can, as you fall. If you sense anything against your fingertips, anything at all…grab it.

Over drinks in the parlor it was an exciting idea. And yet, once inside, once falling, Carol couldn’t move at all. The only motion she felt came from the falling itself.

The cold wind against her.

Still, Carol tried. The image of the threshold still vivid in her memory and mind’s eye.

The sound of breathing continued; the slow steady rumble that reminded Carol of her grandfather’s wheezing. And just beyond it, between inhales and exhales, Carol heard familiar voices: the vague distant syllables of Dwight and Farrah talking.

Carol always heard the external world while inside the coma. But it was an unstable version of that world, as if the individual tones and timbres of the voices were amplified. The emotions behind them, too.

Dwight must be explaining her secret to Farrah, Carol thought. Calming the girl down.

Yet as the words sharpened, at times clearer, at others distorted, Carol heard Dwight speaking like the grievers at Bowie’s funeral. His words came flat and final. There was resignation in his voice. As if Carol had in fact died this time.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling, Carol tried to listen harder, but the wind of falling wouldn’t let her.

Hattie used to simulate this very thing by flapping papers close to Carol’s ears as Carol sat in a chair in the workroom. Hattie would ask her to listen past the papers, to the other rooms of the house. At first it was difficult for an eight-year-old Carol to grasp. But one afternoon, through the crinkling, she heard the voice of a neighbor calling for the family dog, and Carol understood how it was done.

Three decades later Carol understood there were moments, while falling, that concentration could not penetrate. But there were also moments that it could.

John Bowie was long fascinated by the fact that Carol could hear while inside the coma. Once she had shared her secret, he’d sit beside her and read, talk, joke, as Carol fell blind through the coma. Dwight didn’t like it. He said he was partial to her remaining calm and unbothered when she slipped into her deathlike trances. But Carol enjoyed it deeply when John’s comforting singsongy voice danced throughout her personal darkness. As he did magic tricks for her that she could not see.

She longed for his voice now. The words of that wonderful man.

But it was Dwight whom she heard instead.

We must carry her upstairs.

Carol imagined him kneeling beside her inert body, which must have been half in, half out of the house.

Should I call a doctor? Farrah asked, her voice bright, edged with hysteria.

No, Dwight said and Carol believed the explanation was coming. The revelation of her condition. But what Dwight said instead, what Carol thought she heard, turned the winds in the coma to ice. She’s dead, Farrah.

The words were so wrong to Carol, so untrue, that she imagined she’d heard them wrong. After all, how often had she truly heard the world beyond those crinkling papers?

Dead? Farrah asked, the single syllable erupting like thunder in Howltown.

Is there a difference? John once mused, folded upon that wicker chair on the porch. Between Howltown and Death? And if so, how would you know what it was?

Falling, Carol tried to remain calm. She must have heard Dwight wrong. Must have. Must.

Maybe it’s the space we all long for, John said. Everyone wants to get away. You actually get the chance to do it.

Dwight spoke. It’s a terrible thing. But Carol has—

She was just about to tell me something, Farrah said, her voice shaking.

Because both were breathing heavier (and in the coma their breathing sounded like gusts of dark wind), Carol believed they were carrying her now. They were most likely halfway up the stairs. Rising. And yet Carol continued to fall, deeper down.

What did she tell you? Dwight’s words were sharp. Harsh. As if he was trying to read the maid’s mind.

Have you read much about telekinesis? John once asked her. And his voice traveled through the gradations of darkness inside. An old question echoed. Because the rules don’t seem to apply in your coma. For starters, you appear dead when you’re not. Perhaps inside you can do things you can’t do out here? Like…for example…move objects with your mind.

Desperately, still denying the truth of what she was hearing beyond the winds of falling, Carol wanted to prove John’s theory true. If only she could move something. Anything. Let Dwight know she still lived.

She hadn’t…told me yet… Farrah said, and now Carol was close to certain that the girl and Dwight stood on opposite sides of the bed Carol must lie upon. Their voices came to Carol in such a way as to give the bedroom dimensions, and the blankets and pillows muted the harsher echoes that thundered through Howltown.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

"But how much did she say?"

It was the way Dwight said this more than the words he chose. The way he sounded frightened that Farrah might know more than he wanted her to know.

If she could have moved, Carol would have shaken her head no. If she could have spoken, she would have cried, Tell her, Dwight! TELL HER I’M ALIVE!

But there was no parting of her lips, no cry for help.

She said…she said…

Out with it!

Carol felt as if she were falling through a cold patch, an area within the coma she had never been.

Fear was no stranger to Howltown, no traveler from the Trail, but the fear she felt now was shattering.

She said she was feeling odd, Mister Evers! Farrah blurted out. The horror in her voice, amplified in the coma, was deafening. "She said something about a…a…ripple coming. She—"

She called it that?

Called what that?

"A ripple, girl. She used that word?"

Carol tried hard to hear through the winds of the coma, through the papers Hattie used to crinkle by her ears.

She used that word, yes. She told me she wanted to talk to me. Mister Evers…is she really dead?

The hoarse breathing inhaled.

Yes. She’s dead.

Exhaled.

Then the wind grew louder, as if Carol were falling faster.

It’s very important that you tell me all you know, Farrah.

Dwight’s voice was deeper and quieter than it was moments ago. Carol could imagine the expression he wore as he adopted this tone. It was the face Dwight made when he believed he could squeeze information out of someone he thought was less intelligent than himself.

But Farrah didn’t respond.

Silence from the bedroom.

Carol listened close.

Farrah? Dwight said.

A thud. Something heavy falling to the floor.

Then, as it sometimes, mercifully, occurred within the coma, the next words that were spoken told Carol exactly what had happened in the world she’d fallen from.

She’s fainted, Dwight said aloud, disbelieving. The maid has fainted.

Dwight’s breathing came loud, near, and Carol wondered if perhaps he was going to cry. But the steadiness of his exhalations told Carol that he was exerting energy instead.

He was carrying her again.

Every few steps she heard the clack of his dress shoes against solid ground. The first floor again. In the kitchen, the echo was unmistakable.

Dwight grunted,