Precious and Fragile Things by Megan Hart

and foot rubs from handsome, oiled men in loincloths wouldn’t be worth the hassle.
    This was not even close to a hot-stone massage. Paused at the bottom of the stairs, Gilly looked across the room at Todd sitting at the table, still sorting through his folder of papers. He had a cigarette in one hand and sucked in long, deep draws of smoke he held for an impossibly long time before letting it seep from his nostrils. His hair fell forward as he bent over the papers, but she could still see the wounds she’d inflicted on his face. The cuts were evidence she’d done what she could to get away, but small consolation compared to her aches and bruises.
    She’d stayed upstairs for what felt like an hour but might’ve been two. Might’ve been fifteen minutes. She didn’t have a watch, the cabin had no clocks, and the daylight outside was set permanently to twilight. More snow drifted down in spurts, dandruff brushed from a giant’s shoulders.
    Todd looked up when her foot creaked on the bottom step. He closed the folder and stood. “Hi.”
    Walking stiffly so as to jar her sore muscles as little as possible, Gilly limped into the living room. She kept a warydistance, but Todd acted as though he’d never raised a hand to her. He came around the couch but stopped when she took a step back.
    â€œI got your stuff,” he said.
    â€œWhat stuff?” Gilly asked. She didn’t think he was capable of being particularly subtle, but she was wary of some sort of trick she couldn’t anticipate.
    Todd hesitated, then gestured at the front door. “Your stuff. From the truck. I got what I could, anyway. It was fuckall tough. That little tree’s not going to hold it much longer. But…I thought you might want stuff out of it before it hits the bottom of the mountain.”
    Gilly’s aching knees buckled. The doorway saved her from falling as she gripped it with her sore hand. He’d brought her things.
    She moved on stumbling feet, three, four, five steps, to crouch by the pile of miscellaneous junk Todd had brought back from the wreck. Most of it was junk. A scattering of plastic toys. A stray sock that had been missing for months and was now too small for either of the kids. A sippy cup, thick with the remnants of some red juice. Gandy’s blankie, many times repaired and badly in need of a wash. He’d be missing it by now. Crying for it, unable to sleep.
    Gilly grabbed it. Held it to her face. Breathed in the scent of her son. She made a wordless noise of grief into the fabric.
    You’re never going to see him again. Or Arwen, or Seth. This is what you did, Gilly. This is what you deserve.
    â€œGilly?”
    Todd’s hand came to rest on her shoulder, and she shook it off. Clutching the blankie to her chest, she glared up at him. “Don’t. Just don’t!”
    Todd held up both hands, face grim. “Fine. Jesus. What a bitch.”
    He slouched away, boots heavy and clomping on the bare boards of the floor. Gilly crouched over her meager pile of belongings. The detritus of motherhood. Tiny, mismatched pieces of her heart.
    She found her iPod, safe in the soft eyeglass case she used to transport it, the earbuds still wrapped around it. He’d also brought the black CD case bulging with discs she only listened to while driving. Bat Boy, scratched probably beyond repair.
    Behind her, Gilly heard Todd pacing, but she didn’t look. She held the CD close to her. She’d bought this disc with Seth at one of the last few shows this cast had performed at an off-Broadway theater, four days after the Twin Towers had fallen.
    â€œWe took the ferry,” she said.
    Todd’s boots stopped thumping.
    Gilly bent her head over the disc. Her fingers left misty marks on the silver back. “We parked in the lot and took the ferry across. It was full of people going to volunteer to help. There was a federal marshal on board. I could see his gun.