Mark's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Mark's hand rested on the carved door. The glowing marks warmed his palm. He did not trust a thing that appeared from nowhere, but the woman behind him was shaking in the cold. He could stand guard all night in the open, or he could open this door. He chose the door. It swung in without a sound. Mark raised the flint blade and stepped through first. Inside, the air was warm. A fire burned low in a small hearth, though no one had lit it. Two beds waited against the far wall, piled with thick blankets. A table held bread, cheese, and a jug of water. The black cat slipped past his legs and curled up by the fire like it belonged there. "Mark," the woman whispered. She pointed at the table. "That's my grandmother's cup. The one we left behind." Mark looked. A chipped blue cup sat beside the jug. He had seen her hold it a hundred times. It could not be here. Yet there it was, filled with steaming tea. He set the blade on the table and picked up the cup. It was real. Warm. She laughed, a sound he had not heard in days. She wrapped her hands around the cup and drank. Then she touched one of the beds. "It's the quilt from home. The green one." Her eyes filled. The shelter had reached into their memories and pulled out the things they missed most. Mark wanted to feel the same joy. He did not. A house did not know his wife's cup. A house did not stitch a quilt from a home that burned. Something had looked inside them. Something had given them exactly what they wanted, and things that give that freely usually want something back. He ate. He drank. He let her sleep in the warm bed because she needed it, and he would not rob her of one night of comfort. He sat by the fire with the flint blade across his knees and watched the door until dawn. Morning light came through a small window. Mark stood and stretched his stiff back. The fire still burned. The food was still fresh. Nothing had attacked them in the night. He let out a breath. Maybe the place was only a gift. Then he saw the floor. In the dust near the hearth were boot prints. Large ones. They were not his. They crossed from the door to the beds and back, close enough to have stood over his sleeping wife. He had watched the door all night and seen nothing. Mark knelt and pressed his hand to a print. The edges were sharp. Fresh. Whoever left them had walked in past a locked door while he sat three feet away, awake. The shelter had not kept them safe. It had let someone in. And he knew, cold in his chest, that the man hunting them had found this place too.