The trees thinned as they neared the cabin, but also seemed to grow taller, and connected at the top like a canopy high over their heads.
“Is it just me, or does it feel like night came early?” said Monty.
It wasn’t just him; the sun felt very far away.
On the front porch, in campy font, a sign read WELCOME TO CABIN LEIBOWITZ, and as they climbed the rickety stairs, all of Nico—every shell of her, down to the tiniest, most tucked-away Nico, was flooded with a strange sensation . . .
“Can you imagine living here?” Monty asked, only she didn’t answer.
The thing was, she could imagine it. It was why she’d volunteered to go with Monty in the first place.
From the moment she’d laid eyes on this cabin with its canopy-trees and far-off sun, she felt she knew the land, felt she’d lived here for years. Somewhere behind the cabin, the Merrimack River roared, drowning out the noises of the forest and filling her mind’s edges and in-betweens with its full-tilt southern rush. The water was a reminder. She’d been given a job, something to do, something important, only she couldn’t remember what, because she was here at last—
“You okay?” asked Monty.
They were on the porch now, the front door a foot away.
She said, “Yes,” hoping the word sounded truer in her mouth than it felt in her head.
“Thanks for coming with, by the way.” Monty looked at her. “I know this is . . . kind of weird.”
“Sure.” Nico looked at the sign again—WELCOME TO CABIN LEIBOWITZ—and before the déjà vu had a chance to kick back in, she reached out, knocked lightly on the door.
They waited.
No answer.
“Maybe we circle around back?” said Nico. “See if there’s a window, or something.” Because in her mind, she saw a window, a stack of mattresses, a coffee table.
“Hufflefuck.”
Monty looked at her. “What?”
“Nothing.” She reached out again, only this time she knocked harder, and the door swung open by inches.
There were mattresses, though not in a stack. Along the left wall, three twin-size, with crumpled quilts. In the opposite corner, a woodstove, a counter with overhead cabinets, a coffee table in the middle of the room.
An old map of New Hampshire hung on the wall beside a mounted blueprint of some kind of satellite tower. There was also a gun rack with three rifles.
Beside the mattresses, a bedside table with a gas lantern, and a framed kid’s drawing of three stick figures holding hands: an adult woman with comically huge glasses; two kids, one taller than the other; the smaller kid held a stuffed elephant.
Each figure was labeled with arrows: Mommy; Me; Elefint; Echo.
There was a window in the back wall, exactly as Nico had pictured it. It was boarded up, but through a thin slit, she saw that the back of the cabin looked out over a steep hill, and at the bottom of the hill, running and alive as if it had skipped winter altogether: the Merrimack River.
After confirming the place was empty, the rest of the group joined them inside . . . Lennon, peering through the boarded-up window . . . Loretta’s slow boots across the dusty wooden floor, the way she muffled her cough with the back of her fist . . . Monty, quietly combing through supplies in a cabinet . . . They feel it too. It’s why they’re all so quiet.
On a visceral level, something wasn’t right. Not the cabin itself, but their presence in it.
Time to go, she thought. Whatever this cabin was, whatever the reason for its familiarity, she’d reached the river now. Manchester was due south, daylight was dwindling, and she was about to start saying goodbye when Lennon turned from the window and grabbed a rifle off the rack.
“Hey, Kit,” he said.
Kit was staring at the stick-figure drawing. “What.”
“Stay inside, okay?”
Before anyone could ask where Lennon was going, he walked out the door.