Harvesting Ashwood Minnesota 2037 by Cynthia Kraack Page B

didn’t respond immediately, struggling with surprisingly defensive emotions raised by Paul’s tone. Just yesterday he and David encouraged me to open our home to Andrew regardless of the boy’s DNA. Today the reality of this child, my son, sounded like a burden to the family. “Not until next week.” I moved from my window view. “I don’t want to tell the children about Andrew today. Maybe we’ll know David is safe soon, and we can focus on my son’s arrival.”
    I hadn’t had my wits about me to seek access to the child’s files. Andrew might have any assortment of metro behaviors, might detest estate dwellers, carry a personal weapon. Clarissa had kept him safe so I hoped he would be a good kid. I’d have years to learn his face, his characteristics, his dreams. If only David could be here.
    “I love David so much that I can’t imagine him in such danger.” I bit my lip, held it between my teeth, knowing that losing David would be deeper and more painful than my first experience as a widow. “I know life goes on, but this life is one we built.”
    “Hold on, Annie. This is my son. He’ll find a way to get back to you.” My father-in-law and friend returned to my side. “You two are the best matched of all our boys and their wives. Inviting us into your lives made Sarah about as happy as she has been since the depression. Don’t ever doubt that you and all the children are as much Regans as David.” He gave me a squeeze. “We’re family.”
    My father-in-law was more of a rookie in experiencing the loss of immediate family in an unnatural order. The families of David’s siblings owned land that served as the Regan home address for seven generations. My family and first spouse shared wall space in a Minneapolis mausoleum.
    For Paul, family still implied the sweet trail of genetics. I saw family as a fluid collection of people bound by emotion and experience and expectation—like Magda and Lao and the children who grew up at Ashwood. David and I, with our children, created a core family, but as a survivor I let my love grow beyond those with a common last name.
    Paul held open my office door, placed a roughened hand under my elbow, and escorted me from the office building with the kindness of an older generation. We supported each other as we walked through the windowed passage, speaking quietly and projecting hopeful thoughts into the thin information we knew about David’s disappearance as if practicing what to say to Sarah, Phoebe, Noah, and John.
    I saw the boys, faces freshly washed and dressed for the day, lounging in our family quarters. Before they could see me, I snuck past the door to the kitchen to my old friend.
    “Terrell, could I talk with you for a second? Maybe in your office?”
    Morning meal preparation stumbled along, workers not used to Terrell’s methods. Sarah, who knew the team and the kitchen, was absent. He wiped his hands as he followed me to his office.
    “I know what you’re going to say about David. The DOE hasn’t shut me out of their employee communications yet and I read about the ambush in the morning briefing report. When I saw that transport leave, I figured they came with bad news.” He folded his arms across his chest, but the softness around his eyes told me of his empathy. “How you doing?”
    “I’ve known far better days. We’re trying not to get ahead of ourselves.”
    “I remember your wedding out where the kitchen gardens are now. He built you a rocking chair as a surprise and made you sit in it while he filled a plate at the buffet. That’s how I guessed you were pregnant.”
    Stories of shared history make my world a little brighter—when you lose all the people who know all the special stories about the big and little times of your life, having others build new memories is a gift.
    “This is going to be rough.” I hung my head, rubbed at my nose. “I can’t fall apart. I have to talk with the kids.” He gave my back a small rub. “Can