I'm Thinking of Ending Things by Iain Reid Page B

there’s the child, too. Usually in the corner. Sometimes in other places—on the ground, looking up at the larger figure. In one, the child is in the stomach of the woman. In another, the woman has two heads, and one of the heads is the child’s.
    I hear footsteps upstairs. Delicate, soft. Jake’s mother? Why did I assume she does the painting and drawing down here? I hear more footsteps upstairs, heavier.
    I can hear someone. Talking. Two people. I can. From where? It’s Jake’s mom and dad, upstairs. They’re arguing again.
    Arguing might be too strong, but the conversation is not cordial. It’s heated. Something’s wrong. They’re upset. I need to get closer to the vent. There’s a rusty paint can by the far wall. I move it directly under the vent. I stand on it, balancing myself against the wall. They are talking in the kitchen.
    â€œHe can’t keep doing this.”
    â€œIt’s not sustainable.”
    â€œHe spent all that time to get there, just to quit? He threw it away. Of course I worry.”
    â€œHe needs predictability, something steady. He’s alone too much.”
    Are they talking about Jake? I put my hand higher on the wall and rise up on my tiptoes.
    â€œYou kept telling him he could do whatever he wanted.”
    â€œWhat was I supposed to say? You can’t get by day after day being like that, shy, introverted . . . so . . .”
    What’s she saying? I can’t make it out.
    â€œNeeds to get out of his own head, move on.”
    â€œHe left the lab. That was his decision. He never should have started down that path in the first place. The thing is . . .”
    Something here I can’t make out.
    â€œYes, yes. I know he’s smart. I know. But it doesn’t mean he had to go that route.”
    â€œ. . . A job he can keep. Hold down.”
    Left the lab? So they are talking about Jake? What do they mean? Jake’s still working there. It’s getting harder to decipher the words. If I can just get a bit higher, closer.
    The paint can tips and I crash against the wall. The voices stop. I freeze.
    For a second, I think I hear someone move behind me. I shouldn’t be down here. I shouldn’t be listening. I turn to look back toward the stairs, but there’s no one there. Just the shelves full of boxes, the dim light coming from upstairs. I don’t hear the voices anymore, not at all. It’s quiet. I’m alone.
    An awful feeling of claustrophobia settles over me. What if someone were to close the trapdoor covering the stairs? I would be stuck down here. It would be dark. I’m not sure what I would do. I stand up, not wanting to think about it further, rubbing the knee I banged into the wall.
    On my way back up the stairs I notice a lock and latch on the trapdoor, the one that hides the stairs when it’s closed. The latch is screwed into the wall beside the stairs, but the lock’s on the bottom of the trapdoor. You’d think it would be on the top side, so they could lock it from the top. The trapdoor can be closed and opened from either side, either pushed up if you’re in the basement, or pulled up if you’re on the landing. But it can be locked only from below.

—Do we know the official cause of death?
    â€”Bled out, from the puncture wounds.
    â€”Awful.
    â€”Bled for hours, we think. Quite a bit of blood.
    â€”It must have been terrible to stumble across.
    â€”Yes, I imagine it was. Horrible. Something you’d never forget.

T he dining room is empty when I return from the basement. The table has been cleared except for my dessert plate.
    I poke my head into the kitchen. The dirty plates are stacked and rinsed, but not washed. The sink is filled with grayish water. The faucet drips. Drips.
    â€œJake?” I call. Where is he? Where is everyone? Maybe Jake is taking out the table scraps to the compost in the shed.
    I spot the