I stood in the mudroom of my grandmother’s house, in the dark, in the cold, in a blizzard, and I counted the things in front of me because Mira had taught me that counting was better than crying, and I needed to know how many ways I did not understand what was happening.
A generator.
A space heater.
Three jugs of water.
Six cans of food, arranged five on the bottom and one on top like a perfect pyramid.
Coffee.
Matches.
A flashlight.
A battery-powered radio.
The door to the side stairs of the apartment, which was closed.
And me.
Standing in the mudroom like I was the last person on Earth to understand that the man living in my grandmother’s apartment had apparently gone to the hardware store and purchased survival supplies like I was a project that needed funding.
I went back inside the house.
I sat at the kitchen table and I drank the rest of my tea and I tried very hard not to think about the fact that Knox had been here, in my house, in my mudroom, at some point yesterday, and he had put these things here. He had violated my space. He had come into the room between my house and the garage — the room that was supposed to be the barrier — and he had put supplies there like he knew what I needed before I knew what I needed.
I did not think about the fact that he had put them in the mudroom specifically, where I could not miss them. Where the evidence of his choices was waiting for me. Where I had to walk through his intention every time I wanted to go to the basement.
I did not think about what it meant that a man who had refused pie five days ago had decided that I needed a generator. That he had gone to the hardware store. That he had purchased things. That he had spent money. That he had thought about me.
I thought about a lot of other things instead. I thought about the fact that intention was a form of trespass. That caring about someone was a violation of their boundaries. That Knox had come into my house and decided to save me without asking if I wanted saving.
I thought about all of that while sitting at my kitchen table in three sweaters, drinking cold tea, trying not to cry.
I thought about the fact that I was alone in a house with no heat and a blizzard outside the window.
I thought about the fact that the diner was closed.
I thought about the foreclosure clock, which was still ticking even though the power was out, even though the world was ending, even though nobody could remember that the diner was still supposed to be closed.
I thought about the fact that Knox had appeared in my mudroom like a very tall, very quiet Santa Claus, and I did not know if I was supposed to be grateful or humiliated or some third thing that did not have a name in English.
I finished my tea.
I got up and got my coat and my boots and I went outside in three sweaters, a coat, and a growing sense of dread.
The snow was up to my knees.
The wind was the kind of wind that makes you lean into it, that makes you question whether forward motion is actually possible. I walked toward the street slowly, toward the sound of the wind, toward the place where the apartment’s side stairs were supposed to be. The world had gone white. The cars parked on the street were just suggestions of cars, rounded lumps of snow that used to be vehicles.
The side stairs appeared like magic when I was five feet away.
Knox was standing in the middle of the front walk with a snow shovel, moving snow from one place to another. He was in a long coat and no hat and snow was sitting on his shoulders like he was a statue someone had decorated. He had cleared a path from the driveway to the front door. He was working on clearing a path from the front door to the street.
He did not look up when I came toward him.
He just kept shoveling. One push of the snow. Another. Another. His shoulders did the work. His face did not move.
