Malorie(16)

“It does.”

“And I also assume that you brought it here for me to read, which means, of course, that I would have to remove my fold to do so.”

Malorie doesn’t allow the moment to balloon. She senses that, if she waits another few seconds, Ron isn’t going to read what the man left on her porch. He’s going to find an excuse for her to leave.

“There’s a list of survivors in here. By city and state.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And my parents are on the list.”

“Oh…Malorie…”

She hears the empathy in his voice. Then the long-forgotten sound of alcohol poured into an empty glass.

“Here,” Ron says. “I’ve determined you were wrong. You do need a drink. And if I’m going to remove my fold…I’m going to need one, too.”

Malorie has not seen Ron Handy before. She’s only heard his voice. The dozen times she’s spoken with him, whether from outside his service station or in it, she’s never removed her own. Ron has asked that of her. To protect himself.

She feels a glass against the back of her hand. She takes it.

“Are we ready then?” Ron asks.

But Malorie hears concern in his voice. He’s nervous. She’s nervous. What will she see? What will Ron Handy look like?

“You don’t have to do this,” she says.

“But it feels like I do,” Ron says.

Malorie hears him breathe deep. Hears him stand.

“Oh, my,” he says. “You’re very pretty. I had no idea I was living so close to a dream.” Then, “You’re wearing long sleeves and a hood. On a hot day. You’re worried they might touch you.”

Malorie removes her fold. Ron Handy, larger than she imagined, looks like a big, scared child. They share uneasy smiles.

“Yes.”

“You told me about the blind woman who went mad. Can’t quit thinking of that?”

“No.”

“I understand.”

They stare at each other a beat. Take each other in. Malorie sees fear and exhaustion in his face. She wonders if, in the old world, Ron Handy was wealthy.

“Thank you,” she says, “for calling me pretty. Living with two teens…I haven’t had a compliment like that in a long time.”

Ron reaches his glass toward her. They cheer.

“To company,” he says. “And to retaining our senses, no matter how many they try to take from us.”

They drink.

Malorie marvels at the amount of stuff that surrounds him. Odds and ends are piled floor to ceiling. She sees the radio. A cot. Boxes of wires and tools. Canned goods and blankets. Paint cans, magazines, and gasoline. Ron stands beside a foldout lounge chair. He wears a sport jacket and shorts.

“Not where I once imagined myself to be.” Ron smiles. “But who knows…it might be better than where I was heading!”

He laughs. Malorie wants to, but she simply can’t.

Sam and Mary Walsh.

It feels like, if she doesn’t start moving now, she’s going to miss the very last breath they take.

“No photos in there?” Ron asks, acknowledging the papers. She sees the paranoia in his eyes. The shiftiness. The fear.

“No. I worried about the same thing. It’s all notes and diagrams.”

“What else?”

“A lot.”

Ron nods. He looks Malorie in the eye.

“Why do I feel afraid?”

Malorie experiences an emotion she hasn’t felt in a decade or more: kinship with a fellow adult. It’s large enough to bring tears to her eyes. But she doesn’t allow them passage yet.

She hands Ron the stack of papers.

“The stuff about the train is on top,” she says.

Ron eyes the stack. He sips from his glass.

“Well, I suppose, for me, this is a sort of reckoning.”

“How?”

He smiles. “You might do all you can to avoid the new world, but it’s going to come knocking, in some form or another, soon enough.”

Malorie thinks of the census man. Ron squints as he reads the top page. He nods.

“On the radio, it was said the train was functioning. The host, if you could call him that, he’s literally alone, so he’s everything, he said he’d never take it himself.”

“What did he know about it?”

“He said he didn’t think it was safe.”

“Why not?”

“I imagine that’s because it’s a blind train, Malorie.”

Ron eyes her. It’s supposed to be funny. Malorie doesn’t know, maybe it is.

“Yes,” Ron says, reading again. “Lansing. Although I actually heard it was East Lansing. There is a difference, you know.”

“I do.”

A university town. An agriculture school. Michigan State.

“How far are we from East Lansing?” she asks.

But Ron is focusing on the paper.

“It really is very interesting,” he says. “Preordained paths, I mean. Train tracks. By this logic, the only other safe form of travel in the new world would be by roller coaster. Any desire to see Cedar Point, Malorie?”

Ron doesn’t look at her long enough for her to have to smile.