an apple on the floor beneath it. The woman had thrown it, I realized, to catch our attention. I wondered how she had found the strength.
“Slowly,” Kate said, as the woman gulped the water and choked. “There’s plenty.” She looked over at me, pale and tense. “We can’t carry them. He’s far too heavy, and she’s in a family way.”
For the first time, I noticed the large bump beneath the covers. “I’ll be right back,” I said. I ran down the stairs, searching, relieved when I came across a study. A telephone sat on the desk. I lifted the receiver. There was a crackling noise over the line. A woman’s voice said, “Only essential telephone calls are permitted at this time. What is the nature of your call?”
“I need an ambulance!” I tried to stay calm, but my voice still sounded breathless and panicky. “I have two patients with influenza. One is with child. Please—”
The operator interrupted, sounding frazzled. “Your address?”
I gave it. “Will you be terribly long? The woman is—”
“Help will be sent directly.” And with that, the phone went silent.
“Aargh!” Vexed, I dropped the receiver and ran up the stairs.
“They’re on their way,” I said, at Kate’s questioning look. We both knew that could mean anything. Kate pressed a cloth against the man’s forehead. The woman had fallen asleep, and the sound of labored breathing filled the room. I unlatched the damaged window, careful as I pushed it open. As an afterthought, I pulled on my mask.
“I wonder how long they’ve been like this,” I said.
“Long enough.” Kate pointed her chin at the night table, where a newspaper lay beside the water glass. “It’s yesterday’s paper.”
“I should wait outside. I don’t want them to miss the house.”
Kate nodded. “I’ll be fine.”
The ambulance arrived forty minutes later. Kate and I stood on the sidewalk as the stretcher-bearers loaded the man onto the truck. He was still unconscious. The woman grasped my hand as she was carried past, and would not let go. I bent my head to her ear.
“You’re both being taken to the Auditorium.” I tried to reassure her. “To the hospital. You’re safe now.”
But the woman only gripped my hand tighter. “Jamie,” she whispered. “Please.” She dropped my hand and disappeared into the truck. A moment later, the ambulance sped off.
“That was terrifying.” Kate watched as the truck grew smaller in the distance. “I just want to sit down and cry.”
I was only half listening. I turned to look up at the cracked window.
“Cleo?”
I dashed back into the house and up the stairs, entering the bedroom where I’d seen the baseball bat and camera. Draped over a chair was a navy school jacket. I picked it up and turned it over. My scalp prickled.
Footsteps sounded in the hall.
“For heaven’s sake, Cleo.” Kate walked in, aggrieved. “What is it?”
I held up the jacket so she could see the name neatly stitched onto the inside of the collar. Jamison Jones.
“Kate,” I said. “Where’s the boy?”
We searched the house from top to bottom. We looked under beds and inside armoires. Kate ran outside to check the shed. I peeked into the attic, earning nothing but a face full of cobwebs for my trouble.
In the study—a room filled with heavy wood and dark leather—Kate and I examined a framed photograph on the mantel. Mrs. Jones was seated. She wore an enormous feathered hat. Mr. Jones stood behind her, gruff and serious, along with a skinny teenage boy who looked just like his father.
“Did she actually say he was missing?” Kate asked.
I shook my head. “She just said his name. And she said please.”
“Please what?”
“I don’t know,” I said, frustrated.
Kate was quiet for a moment. “She was sick, Cleo. Maybe she didn’t know what she was saying. He could be with relatives. I’m sure he’s fine.”
Her words made sense. More sense than my own doubt—that tiny niggling feeling that
“Slowly,” Kate said, as the woman gulped the water and choked. “There’s plenty.” She looked over at me, pale and tense. “We can’t carry them. He’s far too heavy, and she’s in a family way.”
For the first time, I noticed the large bump beneath the covers. “I’ll be right back,” I said. I ran down the stairs, searching, relieved when I came across a study. A telephone sat on the desk. I lifted the receiver. There was a crackling noise over the line. A woman’s voice said, “Only essential telephone calls are permitted at this time. What is the nature of your call?”
“I need an ambulance!” I tried to stay calm, but my voice still sounded breathless and panicky. “I have two patients with influenza. One is with child. Please—”
The operator interrupted, sounding frazzled. “Your address?”
I gave it. “Will you be terribly long? The woman is—”
“Help will be sent directly.” And with that, the phone went silent.
“Aargh!” Vexed, I dropped the receiver and ran up the stairs.
“They’re on their way,” I said, at Kate’s questioning look. We both knew that could mean anything. Kate pressed a cloth against the man’s forehead. The woman had fallen asleep, and the sound of labored breathing filled the room. I unlatched the damaged window, careful as I pushed it open. As an afterthought, I pulled on my mask.
“I wonder how long they’ve been like this,” I said.
“Long enough.” Kate pointed her chin at the night table, where a newspaper lay beside the water glass. “It’s yesterday’s paper.”
“I should wait outside. I don’t want them to miss the house.”
Kate nodded. “I’ll be fine.”
The ambulance arrived forty minutes later. Kate and I stood on the sidewalk as the stretcher-bearers loaded the man onto the truck. He was still unconscious. The woman grasped my hand as she was carried past, and would not let go. I bent my head to her ear.
“You’re both being taken to the Auditorium.” I tried to reassure her. “To the hospital. You’re safe now.”
But the woman only gripped my hand tighter. “Jamie,” she whispered. “Please.” She dropped my hand and disappeared into the truck. A moment later, the ambulance sped off.
“That was terrifying.” Kate watched as the truck grew smaller in the distance. “I just want to sit down and cry.”
I was only half listening. I turned to look up at the cracked window.
“Cleo?”
I dashed back into the house and up the stairs, entering the bedroom where I’d seen the baseball bat and camera. Draped over a chair was a navy school jacket. I picked it up and turned it over. My scalp prickled.
Footsteps sounded in the hall.
“For heaven’s sake, Cleo.” Kate walked in, aggrieved. “What is it?”
I held up the jacket so she could see the name neatly stitched onto the inside of the collar. Jamison Jones.
“Kate,” I said. “Where’s the boy?”
We searched the house from top to bottom. We looked under beds and inside armoires. Kate ran outside to check the shed. I peeked into the attic, earning nothing but a face full of cobwebs for my trouble.
In the study—a room filled with heavy wood and dark leather—Kate and I examined a framed photograph on the mantel. Mrs. Jones was seated. She wore an enormous feathered hat. Mr. Jones stood behind her, gruff and serious, along with a skinny teenage boy who looked just like his father.
“Did she actually say he was missing?” Kate asked.
I shook my head. “She just said his name. And she said please.”
“Please what?”
“I don’t know,” I said, frustrated.
Kate was quiet for a moment. “She was sick, Cleo. Maybe she didn’t know what she was saying. He could be with relatives. I’m sure he’s fine.”
Her words made sense. More sense than my own doubt—that tiny niggling feeling that
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