“What?” he raises a brow, catching her stare.
“Nothing. If I tilt my head and squint just right, I feel like I’m getting a glimpse of how you’d be back on the farm.”
“Do you think Wyatt got there yet?”
“Absolutely. He’s probably picked up a few fainting goats along the way, too, so at least your farm finally has some of those.”
He rolls his eyes, talking directly to the penguin. “Can you please fall over dramatically for her?”
The bird fails to respond but they both huff out a few amused sounds before turning back to the morning’s chores.
At first, she had been wary of bringing up the place that he’d been so set on spending the rest of his life at. He gave up everything for the kind of simplicity that can only be found by working the land and tending the animals in crisp mountain air. And now it’s all gone. The last thing she wants to do is trigger regret, but knowing that someone else could be there right now, keeping that place running, seems to have soothed a lot of his anxiety.
Sometimes she catches him gazing toward the windows when the snow is falling in thick, soundless sheets, his expression unreadable. She wonders if he’s mourning all that was taken from him, or if he’s realizing he’s gained something precious and unexpected, just like she does when she thinks of him.
Their mornings now are spent in familiar routines of feeding, cleaning, and handing out medications. Though Theo still does all of the heavy lifting. She is stronger every day, closer to normal with every inhale, but if there were a doctor here, he would probably tell her not to pick up anything over five pounds yet. It’s domestic in its simplicity, this little life they’ve created together. Nora finds herself smiling between tasks because each one ties her closer to this place, to Theo, to the fragile world they’ve carved out of a wilderness that tried to swallow them whole.
When twilight slips across the snow, the storm outside is building fast, and they settle on the floor in the main room, a row of candles flickering between them. Nora pulls out the small notebook where she’s written dosage schedules and notes for their charges, and keeps a log of Theo’s headaches. They’ve lessened now that the stress of her impending doom has lifted, and there aren’t dead people chasing them across the tundra.
“Should we write something for whoever finds this place many, many years in the future? You know, after our hundredth birthdays, of course?” she says, pencil poised.
“Like what?”
“I dunno, like people used to carve their initials into trees, I guess, just something that shows we were here. That we survived.”
Nora writes the first line.Theo and Nora. Year one of the apocalypse. Still alive. Still together.
He adds beneath it:Still hopelessly in love.
She shakes her head with a half laugh, watching him rip the paper from the book and pin it to the corner of the bulletin board on the wall. Maybe they’ll add a line every year, she thinks, wondering how far into this disaster they’ll get before they run out of room on a single page.
* * *
Later, they set the radio Theo repaired on the counter. Static hisses across the wires, as they wait for a connection they may never hear. Nora presses the button, her voice firm but nervous.
“This is Nora and Theo. Our plane crashed in Alaska, but we’re alive. If you can hear this, if you’re immune, if you’re a scientist working on a cure, or anyone with even a slim hope of fighting this virus, come here. Come to Barrow. Light a campfire on the top of the sheriff’s station, and we’ll find you.”
They only receive the steady crackle of white noise in response. Theo squeezes her knee, his shoulder nudging hers. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”
Looking for a scientist in a haystack is what he called this, and he’s right. They’re putting out a signal with no plan for what comes after if someone actually answers. She isn’t sure anymore if she wants to help survivors or never see another face except for the man beside her. There are moments when it could go either way.
Something tells her this isn’t finished, though, and he must feel it too, because he only puts up a token protest at their efforts to flag down survivors. So they’ll keep trying. No matter what happens, if someone answers today or a year from now…or never, they’ll be ready, and they’ll face it together.
* * *
By the time the room grows dark that evening, a fresh wind roaring against the walls, they make time for themselves, lighting another row of candles, their glow warm and golden.
They’ve moved the mattress down to the floor so it’s easier to snuggle up together and when he helps her out of her pants, like he does every night so she doesn’t strain herself bending over, she runs a slow hand over his hair, threading her fingers through the soft strands in an unmistakable way that has him looking up at her from where he’s knelt down.
She wears his shirts most days. They’re bigger and easier to unbutton and she makes good use of that feature now, slowly undoing each one until it hangs open.
The desire flaring in his eyes soothes some part of her that worried he may be losing interest after having to spend so much time assisting her during recovery. It’s a silly thought. It’s not like she would ever stop wanting him if she had to help wash his hair or take his pants off before bed, but she is so used to never being enough for anyone that even now she has to shove that fear away with a hard hand.
Theo is not her first husband or her second. He holds no grudges or resentments. He only loves her. He has proven that time and time again, and tonight she aims to show him exactly how much her heart burns for him, too.
“Are you sure?” His voice catches in his throat as large hands steady her hips.
“I’m sure. I need to be on top. I don’t think I can lie on my back yet, but I feel good otherwise.”
