Get your ass home. You’ve got a wife and two fine kids to talk to.

But if he did that, he would lose the book. He knew that as well as he knew his own name. After four or five days, when he was back in Falmouth and feeling better, he would open the Bitter River documents and the prose there would look like something someone else had written, an alien story he would have no idea how to finish. Leaving now would be like throwing away a precious gift, one that might never be given again.

Had to be a man about it, and it went pneumonia, Roy DeWitt’s daughter had said, the subtext being just another damn fool. And was he going to do the same?

The lady or the tiger. The book or your life. Was the choice really that stark and melodramatic? Surely not, but he surely felt like ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag, there was no doubt about that.

Nap. I need a nap When I wake up, I’ll be able to decide.

So he took another knock of Dr. King’s Magic Elixir—or whatever it was called—and climbed the stairs to the bedroom he and Lucy had shared on other trips out here. He went to sleep, and when he woke up, the rain and wind had arrived and the choice was made for him. He had a call to make. While he still could.

19

“Hey, honey, it’s me. I’m sorry I pissed you off. Really.”

She ignored this completely. “It doesn’t sound like allergies to me, Mister. It sounds like you’re sick.”

“It’s just a cold.” He cleared his throat, or tried to. “A pretty bad one, I guess.”

The throat-clearing provoked coughing. He covered the mouthpiece of the old-fashioned phone, but he supposed she heard it anyway. The wind gusted, rain slapped against the windows, and the lights flickered.

“So now what? You just hole up?”

“I think I have to,” he said, then rushed on. “It’s not the book, not now. I’d come back if I thought it was safe, but that storm is here already. The lights just flickered. I’m going to lose the power and the phone before dark, practically guaranteed. Here I’ll pause so you can say I told you so.”

“I told you so,” she said. “And now that we’ve got that out of the way, how bad are you?”

“Not that bad,” he said, which was a far bigger lie than telling her the satellite dish didn’t work. He thought he was quite bad indeed, but if he said that, it was hard to gauge how she might react. Would she call the Presque Isle cops and request a rescue? Even in his current condition, that seemed like an overreaction. Not to mention embarrassing.

“I hate this, Drew. I hate you being up there and cut off. Are you sure you can’t drive out?”

“I might have been able to earlier, but I took some cold medicine before I laid down for a nap and overslept. Now I don’t dare chance it. There are still washouts and plugged culverts from last winter. A hard rain like this is apt to put long stretches of the road underwater. The Suburban might make it, but if it didn’t, I could be stranded six miles from the cabin and nine miles from the Big 90.”

There was a pause, and in it Drew fancied he could hear what she was thinking: Had to be a man about it, didn’t you, just another damn fool. Because sometimes I told you so was just not enough.

The wind gusted and the lights flickered again. (Or maybe they stuttered.) The phone gave a cicada buzz, then cleared.

“Drew? Are you still there?”

“I’m here.”

“The phone made a funny sound.”

“I heard it.”

“You have food?”

“Plenty.” Not that he felt like eating.

She sighed. “Then hunker down. Call me tonight if the phone still works.”

“I will. And when the weather breaks, I’ll come home.”

“Not if there are trees down, you won’t. Not until somebody decides to come in and clear the road.”

“I’ll clear them myself,” Drew said. “Pop’s chainsaw is in the equipment shed, unless one of the renters decided to take it. Any gas that was in the tank will have evaporated, but I can siphon some out of the Suburban.”

“If you don’t get sicker.”

“I won’t—”

“I’m going to tell the kids you’re fine.” Talking to herself more than him now. “No sense worrying them, too.”

“That’s a good—”

“This is fucked up, Drew.” She hated it when he interrupted her, but had never had any qualms about doing it herself. “I want you to know that. When you put yourself in this position, you put us in it, too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Is the book still going well? It better be. It better be worth all the worry.”

“It’s going fine.” He was no longer sure of this, but what else could he tell her? The shit’s starting again, Lucy, and now I’m sick as well? Would that ease her mind?

“All right.” She sighed. “You’re an idiot, but I love you.”

“Love you, t—” The wind whooped, and suddenly the only light in the cabin was the dim and watery stuff coming in through the windows. “Lucy, I just lost the lights.” He sounded calm, and that was good.

“Look in the equipment shed,” she said. “There might be a Coleman lantern—”

There was another of those cicada buzzes, and then nothing but silence. He replaced the old-fashioned phone in its cradle. He was on his own.

20

He grabbed a musty old jacket from one of the hooks by the door and fought his way to the equipment shed through the late light, raising his arm once to fend off a flying branch. Maybe it was being sick, but the wind felt like it was already blowing forty per. He fumbled through the keys, cold water trickling down the back of his neck in spite of the jacket’s turned-up collar, and had to try three before he found the one that fit the padlock on the door. Once again he had to diddle it back and forth to get it to turn, and by the time it did, he was soaked and coughing.

The shed was dark and full of shadows even with the door wide open, but there was enough light to see Pop’s chainsaw sitting on a table at the back. There were also a couple of other saws, one a two-handed buck, and probably that was good, because the chainsaw looked useless. The yellow paint of the body was almost obscured by ancient grease, the cutting chain was badly rusted, and he couldn’t imagine mustering the energy to yank the starter cord, anyway.

Lucy was right about the Coleman lantern, though. There were actually two of them sitting on a shelf to the left of the door, along with a gallon can of fuel, but one of them was clearly useless, the globe shattered and the handle gone. The other one looked okay. The silk mantles were attached to the gas jets, which was good; with his hands shaking the way they were, he doubted if he would have been able to tie them down. Should have thought of this sooner, he scolded himself. Of course I should have gone home sooner. When I still could.

When Drew tipped the can of fuel to the dimming afternoon light, he saw Pop’s backslanted printing on a strip of adhesive: USE THIS NOT UNLEADED GAS! He shook the can. It was half full. Not great, but maybe enough to last a three-day blow if he rationed his use.

He took the can and unbroken lantern back to the house, started to put them on the dining room table, then thought better of it. His hands were shaking, and he was bound to spill at least some of the fuel. He put the lantern in the sink instead, then shucked the sodden jacket. Before he could think about fueling the lantern, the coughing started again. He collapsed into one of the dining room chairs, hacking away until he felt he might pass out. The wind was howling, and something thudded on the roof. A much bigger branch than the one he’d fended off, from the sound.