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They’d found a way to keep themselves going. They’d found food and clothing and everything they’d need. There was enough to keep them safe for months. Maybe for years.
They’d even cut down and decorated a tree. Wrapped presents.
Cooked a feast.
So where were they?
Why had they left?
He thought of the man in the yard. Granddad.
Okay, so the old man had died. But there was no blood inside the house. No sign of violence. Nothing to indicate that the man had died and reanimated in here. No evidence that he’d attacked and killed his own children and grandchildren.
He was outside.
And where were they?
Dan stood at the top of the stairs. He held a shotgun to his chest tighter than if it was a talisman. Tighter than if it was Jesus on the cross.
“Dan—?” called Mason.
“Shh!” hissed Dan as he leaned down the stairs.
“Come on. It’s getting cold.”
Not the house.
The food.
Dan came downstairs.
He pulled out a chair for Mason. He sat in the one next to him.
“Is it Christmas?” asked the boy.
“I—I guess so.”
“Do we get to open presents?”
Dan glanced at the presents. There were so many of them. Surely some would have to be appropriate for a little boy. Maybe socks. Maybe a toy. What did it matter when you had nothing at all?
“Sure,” he said. “In the morning. Presents are for Christmas morning.”
He reached for the carving knife and fork.
Mason looked at him, his eyes wide and filled with light. “Don’t we have to say grace first?”
Dan wiped at the tears in his eyes. He bent and kissed Mason on the top of the head.
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess we do.”
They said grace. It surprised Dan that he could remember how to say thanks.
The words came.
Slowly, in shuffling steps through his mind. But they came.
He said grace.
