George Silkweaver's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

George's daytime map held for a week. He learned the morning boots, the lunch shuffle, the long quiet of the afternoon. Then, on the eighth night, he woke to the floor shaking. A boot came down two tiles from his hiding spot, then another, then a third. He pressed himself flat under the lip and counted to ten. The boots kept moving. When the kitchen went still again, he crept out and looked down. Fresh tread marks sat in the spilled flour by the stove. Deep ridges. Wide heel. Someone walked through here after dark, and his map had nothing for it. He spent the next day building two things. The first was a small web in the high corner above the stove, where the cabinet met the ceiling. From there he could see the doorway, the floor, and the counter without being seen. He spun the threads thin and pale so the web looked like dust. The second was harder. He needed a record. On the counter, the girl had left a worn orange-covered book open to a blank page. George climbed down at dusk and dragged a curl of pencil shaving onto the paper. He could not write words, but he could mark time. One scratch for each set of boots. A short line for light steps, a long line for heavy ones. He hid the marks under the spine where the page met the binding. That night he waited in the high web. At 9:47 the boots came. One person, heavy, walking from the doorway to the sink and back. George counted seven steps in, eight steps out. He marked the journal at first light. The next night, 9:51. Six steps in, eight steps out. The third night, 9:46. The pattern held. Whoever walked through the kitchen at night came near ten, crossed to the sink, and left. George traced the path on the flour dust and matched it against his daytime routes. The night walker crossed directly over the third tile from the wall. His tile. On the fourth night, George did not sleep under the lip. He climbed to the high web before sunset and waited. At 9:48 the boots came. Heavy. Seven steps in. The figure stopped at the sink, ran water, and turned. Eight steps out. The boot landed on his old spot and pressed down hard. George watched from the corner above the stove. He had not been there. He had known not to be there. He climbed down at midnight and made two new marks in the journal — one for the step, one for himself. The map now had a night side. The tile under the lip was no longer safe, and he would need a new daytime hiding spot before morning.