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By Root 487 0

and barely punctured cans lay at her feet. There wasn't any strength in the emaciated legs. Her stick-like arms were covered with sores and red blotches. Months had passed since I had seen somebody living with the Shakes. It amazed me that she had survived this long. But some people possessed a natural immunity. It wouldn't save them, but it was enough to make life into something worse than dying.

With all of the dignity she could muster, that naked starving and helpless woman sat on her makeshift toilet and looked at me and said nonsense. Then her eyes moved, and she stopped talking.

A hand dropped on my shoulder.

I waited for my name to be said. I waited to be in trouble. But my father knelt and looked only at me. Then with a careful solemn voice, he said, "Go outside, Noah. Go now, and I'll be right behind you."

My first thought was that dad was going to open up some cans and bottles, giving the lady a feast before we moved on.

Then I saw the pistol tucked into the back of his pants.

I hesitated.

Again Dad looked at me. This time he said, "Go," with God's own authority, and I went outside as ordered. I didn't want to run. I told myself just to walk. But I was suddenly in the bright sunshine, my legs churning, and the shot came and was gone and I barely heard it.

Mom called my name, but she didn't try to stop me.

I ran past her, sobbing and making my own nonsensical sounds.

On the brink of giddy, the old woman says, "Oh, my. Winter? Well then, we did it, didn't we? Winter came. We saved the world."

Few people pay attention. A few notice her voice and maybe listen to the words. But everybody is talking. Everybody wants to find the fun in something new and unexpected. Just slightly, the noise inside the big room dips, and then grandma is finished and blank-faced again. Maybe she didn't speak. I thought I heard everything, but I'm not sure what I heard. There might be a thousand fine reasons to ignore whatever leaks out of that lady. And that's my intention, right up until I glance at May.

She and her father are trading looks. Less than comfortable, there's this weird long moment where bolts of electricity seem to be flying between them.

And then together, at the same moment, they laugh.

Nothing could be funnier, their cackling says. May lowers her pad and pen, patting her grandmother on the back while casually studying the other faces in the room. Settling on the person most puzzled by this outburst, May uses a smile that couldn't feel any sharper. "Grandma has troubles," she mentions.

I nod amiably, seeing no reason to disagree.

"Gets confused," she adds.

"It's all right," I say.

But that doesn't satisfy her. She needs to touch me. Her fingers curl around my elbow, and her face is close enough that I can smell dried meat on her breath. "The poor thing tells the most amazing stories," says May, her voice quiet, just short of a whisper.

"I can believe it," I answer.

"Don't make anything out of her noise," her father suggests, offering up a nod and wink. "She doesn't even know where she is."

Maybe not, but the woman in question giggles again - that same odd girly giggle - and once more her eyes regain their depth and clarity. She turns and looks at us, engaged enough with the conversation to open her mouth, the beginnings of some new statement emerging.

May cuts her off.

Nothing about the act is rude, but the girl is determined. "I'm sure you're tired, grandma. Wouldn't you like to lie down? A little nap, yes?"

Grandma blinks, struggling with the abrupt shift in topics.

Her son turns to the mayor, his voice louder than necessary. "My mother needs to lie down. Do you have any guest quarters, a spare bed ... ?"

"We don't have guests," the mayor confesses. "And the beds are all upstairs." But after giving the situation careful study, he charitably adds, "There's a comfortable couch in the next room. With the door closed, I think your mother could relax."

That's good enough for this suddenly devoted son. "Come on, Mom. Let me help you."

He and the old lady follow the mayor out of sight.

I watch May,