“Hey,” the man says.
But Tom is at the back door and knocking five times before the man says another word.
“Tom?”
“Yes. Hurry.”
“Are your—”
“Mom. Hurry.”
Malorie opens the back door and Tom nearly knocks her over as he rushes inside.
“What’s going on?” Olympia asks.
“Mom—” Tom begins.
But there is a knock at the front door.
The door is thin and old. Malorie has expressed worry before; it isn’t enough to stop anything, or anyone, from coming in.
“It’s a man,” Tom says. But Malorie has already tapped him on the shoulder. He knows what this means. He knows also that Olympia received the same tap.
Tom doesn’t speak again.
“Hello in there,” the man says on the other side of the cabin door. “I’m with the census.”
Malorie doesn’t respond. Tom thinks of the rustling papers he heard. A barrow full?
“Do you know what the census is?”
Malorie doesn’t respond. Tom thinks he might have to do something. If the man tries to break the door down, he’s going to have to do something.
“I don’t mean to frighten you,” the man says. “I could come back another time. But it’s hard to say when that will be.”
Malorie doesn’t respond. Tom knows she won’t.
He wants to ask Olympia what a census is.
“I just wanna talk to you. However many there are in there. It could save lives.”
Malorie doesn’t respond.
“What does he want?” Tom whispers. Malorie grabs his wrist to quiet him.
“So, what I do,” the man says, “I go around gathering stories. I gather information. I know quite a bit about failed attempts at trying to look at the creatures. I know of successes people have had in terms of living better lives. Did you know there is a working train now?”
Malorie doesn’t respond. Suddenly, Tom wants to.
“Right here in Michigan…a train. And did you know there are more creatures now than before? Estimates say they have tripled since first arriving. Have you noticed more activity outside your home?”
Malorie doesn’t respond. But Tom really wants to. What this man is saying electrifies him. Why not exchange information? Why not learn? In the name of a better life, why not?
“There’s some evidence of one having been caught,” the man says. “Certainly people have tried all over.”
And now Tom knows why Malorie hasn’t spoken.
By her measures, this man is unsafe. Just the suggestion of capturing one must have turned her to stone. If she wasn’t stone already.
“I have lists,” the man says. “Patterns. A lot of information that can help you. And your stories, in turn, might help others. Please. Let’s talk?”
Malorie doesn’t respond.
But Tom does.
“Do you have that information written down?”
Malorie grips his wrist.
“Yes, I do.” Relief in the man’s voice. “I have literature on me. Right here.”
Malorie grips his wrist so tight he has to grab her hand to stop it.
“Could you leave it on the front porch?”
This is Olympia speaking. Tom could kiss her.
But the man is silent for some time. Then, “That doesn’t seem like an even trade. I’d be leaving everything I know, without getting anything in return.”
Finally, Malorie speaks.
“Add us to the list of people who turned you away.”
Tom hears a sigh through the wood.
“Are you absolutely sure?” the man asks. “It’s not often I encounter a group. As you can imagine, it’s not the most fruitful, nor the safest, endeavor. Are you sure you won’t have me in for an hour? Maybe two? Can I at least get your names?”
“Leave us now.”
“Okay,” he says. “You realize I’m just a man trying to do good out here, right? I’m literally trying to give us all a better understanding of where we’re at.” Then, after further silence from within, “Okay. I apologize if I’ve scared you. I see I have.”
Tom’s ear is cocked to the door. He hears the man leaving the porch, shoes on the cabin stairs, breaks in the dry grass beyond, the wheelbarrow pushed once more. By the time Tom is at the door himself, his ear to the wood, he can hear the man’s steps diminishing, taking the dirt road out of camp.
He turns to Malorie and Olympia. But before he can say anything, Malorie does.
“I told you not to speak,” she says. “Next time, you don’t.”
“He’s gone,” Olympia says.
But Tom already knows what Malorie is going to say before she says it.
“Not until we sweep the camp, he’s not.”
“Mom,” Tom says. “He’s not Gary.”
Malorie doesn’t hesitate with her response.
“Not another word,” she says. “And wear your hood for fuck’s sake, Tom.”
Tom remains by the front door as Malorie readies herself to step outside, to check every cabin in the camp. The man could be staying here, Malorie will say. He could be camping out in the woods, she will say. Who knows how long he’s been watching them, she will say. And the name Gary will come up again. As it always does in times of trouble.
But Tom isn’t listening for what Malorie says or doesn’t say. His ear is on the soft rustle on the other side of the cabin’s front door. As what must be a welcome breeze shuffles the papers sitting out there on the porch.
The literature the man left behind after all.
TWO
Olympia sits on her bed; she reads out loud. Whoever wrote the notes, the writing is messy. Olympia thinks that’s because many copies were made and who knows how deep into that chore the person was by the time they wrote this particular draft. The pile of pages is huge. Bigger than any book in the camp library. She tries to pace her reading, to slow down, but she recognizes in her own voice the excitement she’s read about in numerous characters in numerous books. Authors used words like breathless and eager to describe how she feels. In part, it’s the thrill of keeping a secret. Malorie doesn’t know the man left the literature. And she definitely doesn’t know Olympia reads it to her brother now.