Chapter 8
It was them.
Clara’s heart skipped a beat, hammering against her ribs as she watched the small group through the binoculars. There was her mother, wrapped in the filthy remnants of her cream-colored bathrobe, her blonde hair tangled and matted with soot. Beside her stumbled her father, his face gaunt and exhausted, his gray sweater torn at the shoulder. And in his arms, shivering miserably, was Toby. They were moving slowly, haltingly, stopping every few feet to catch their breath in the thin mountain air. They looked defeated, broken by the very world they had tried to outrun.
Clara lowered the binoculars, her hands trembling slightly against the wooden sill. They were heading straight for the forestry station. The automated broadcast must have reached them on a portable radio, drawing them up the mountain like moths to a flame. They were looking for shelter, for supplies, for someone to save them from the consequences of their own cruelty. And the only person standing between them and the safety of the station was the daughter they had left behind to die in a burning hallway.
A storm of conflicting emotions raged inside her. Part of her wanted to run down the stairs, fling open the heavy door, and scream at them—to demand an explanation for why she wasn't worth saving, to watch them squirm under the weight of their own hypocrisy. Another part of her wanted to stay hidden, to lock every door and pretend she wasn't there, letting them freeze on the porch as poetic justice for the way they had discarded her.
She watched them through the slats as they reached the base of the wooden steps. Her father practically collapsed against the railing, his chest heaving as he shifted Toby to his other arm. Her mother looked up at the heavy metal door, her face a mask of desperate entitlement, expecting the world to open its arms to them simply because they had survived this long. They had no idea who was waiting inside. They had no idea that the girl they left behind in the pajamas and the dirt was the very person holding the key to their survival.
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Clara stepped back from the window, her bare feet silent against the wooden floorboards. She walked over to the workbench, picked up the red backpack, and slung it securely over her shoulders. The metallic canister inside pressed firmly against her spine. She walked down the stairs to the ground floor, stopping just inches from the heavy timber door. Through the thick wood, she could hear the faint, muffled sound of her father’s fist rapping weakly against the frame, followed by her mother’s voice calling out for help.
“Please,” her mother cried, the sound cracked and pathetic. “Is anyone in there? We have a child. We need help.”
