Chapter 18: Who Gets In

Hank stood at the gate in his slicker with the shotgun in the crook of his arm, and the headlights lit the rain in front of him.

The truck was Dane's white pickup. It had a canvas cover pulled tight over the bed.

I came down the drive with Jude beside me and Maisy behind, all three of us in Hank's spare rain gear.

Dane rolled his window down three inches.

"Annabel." He looked terrible. His collar was soaked, and his face was grey. "Thank God. Hank, put that down. I brought you people."

"I can see that," Hank said.

"There's a mother and two kids in the back, and an old guy. They've been under the tarp since Day Three. They need a roof."

"Why here?"

"Because you can't turn away kids."

He said it with a small, hopeful smile.

I knew the smile. It was the one he used on the checkout line when he'd forgotten his wallet.

"Hank," I said. "Check them first."

Hank went around to the back and lifted the canvas.

Four people sat under it on a pile of blankets, soaked at the edges and dry in the middle.

The woman held two children against her, a boy of about six and a girl, and she was staring at the shotgun.

"Open your mouths," Hank said. "All of you. Look at my light."

They did.

He checked their eyes, and the children's, and the old man's. Then he passed the light across their wet sleeves and boots.

"They've kept covered," he said. "They've been drinking out of bottles."

"I kept them under the tarp," the woman said hoarsely. "I didn't know where else to go."

"You're all right," Hank said. "Come on. There's soup."

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