7.

‘Can we turn it down a bit?’ Frida nods at the radio, and Evelyn knows it must be bad, if even Frida is getting squeamish. But of course it’s bad; of course she knows this.

‘We can turn it down.’

As Frida crosses to the radio, adjusts the dial, Evelyn resists the urge to check on Soul. There are still reports to finish; even now, they must uphold the appearance of a thriving community. She keeps typing, studying figures, typing harder to cover the cries on the radio. Hard like rain on a tin roof. Hard enough to bruise her fingertips black and blue.

‘Oh, go to hell, you fucker,’ Frida growls out of nowhere. ‘Fucker! Fuck you.’

She slams the side of her typewriter, gives a yelp of pain or frustration. Seeing Evelyn’s questioning glance, she explains lamely, ‘The ribbon ran out.’

‘Really, Frida, you need to keep it down.’ Evelyn nods toward the room where Soul is sleeping.

They keep working in silence, or near-silence. Evelyn finishes the Education Report.

‘It’s a pity we won’t get to see the results of Meyer’s new methodology,’ she tells Frida. ‘But I’ve made some predictions. Who knows, maybe some group somewhere will be inspired by our example.’

‘I can’t wait to die,’ Frida says.

After some time, the cries on the radio get quieter. Legacy, Jim is saying. What a legacy. Footsteps approach the cabin, and Evelyn and Frida look at each other, scramble for their pistols. But it’s just Jin-sun Jones and his white wife, Carrie, holding her baby in her arms.

‘Bam!’ Frida coos, getting up to stroke the baby. ‘Oh … You did it already?’

Carrie nods tearfully. Jin-sun says, ‘Dad said it was okay if we came here.’

‘There are some things in the fridge,’ Evelyn offers. She thinks of asking Jin-sun about his brothers, whether they’ve had any success getting revenge on their enemies in the capital, but Jin-sun doesn’t look much in the mood for talking and, really, she isn’t either.

Carrie climbs onto the top bunk with her baby. Jin-sun gets some cups, fills them with fruit punch, and joins his wife. Evelyn keeps typing as the couple whisper to each other.

When the bunk begins to rattle above her, she moves to the floor.

‘It’s been quiet for a while,’ Frida says, after the cabin grows frigid with radio silence, the stillness of the young family. ‘Do you think Father—?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Do you think we should—?’ Frida closes her fist, holds it out. ‘Rock-paper-scissors?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll go.’ Evelyn rises. ‘Finish the Maintenance Report.’

‘If Soul wakes—’

‘He won’t,’ Evelyn snaps, taking up her pistol, the flashlight. ‘Just, don’t — don’t do anything. Don’t touch him.’

Evelyn concentrates on the dance of the flashlight, ducking her head for curtains of foliage, low-flying bats and insects. Shapes in the dark, which could be sandbags or logs; yes, logs. But after a while, she has to look down; there are so many, she’ll trip if she doesn’t. She doesn’t want to trip. She doesn’t want to fall … fall on somebody.

Why did she wear sandals?

‘No,’ an older woman in a red hat is saying to Sally-Ann, trying to fend off her hands. ‘No, no, no.’

‘Please.’ Sally-Ann draws up the woman’s sleeve. ‘Please, just … it won’t hurt.’

Evelyn tautens her nostrils against the smell: an intense human clamminess, overlaid with something sickly-sweet, like pineapple. A few more nurses are struggling with recalcitrant adults; dead-eyed guards along the perimeters, holding their guns like toys. But most of the people, the ones still living, are huddled quietly, swallowing quietly.

‘No,’ the woman says as the syringe goes into her arm. ‘Why? No.’

Sally-Ann notices Evelyn, looks at her with overbright eyes, cheeks flushed like she’s been playing a spirited game of tag, jumping rope. She opens her mouth to say something.

Evelyn stops her.

‘Finish it quickly,’ she tells Sally-Ann. ‘It’s almost done.’

She continues toward the stage, stepping over the fallen.

‘Why’s it taking so long?’ Jim, slumped in his chair, scolds Dr. Katz. ‘Why — you said they wouldn’t struggle, you lyin’ quack; why—’ He notices Evelyn. ‘Honey. We tried.’

Evelyn nods. Her eye is caught by a crop of reddish-gold curls, a few feet from Jim’s chair. Jim notices her looking. ‘My good wife,’ he explains.

Evelyn nods again, touches her ear; she’s missing an earring. She resists glancing down in search of it.

Mona scurries out of the radio shed, tape recorder in hand. She takes one of Jim’s arms; Evelyn takes the other.

They help him offstage.

‘Did you hear me on the radio?’ Jim asks. ‘How’d I do …?’