“Daniel!” Wendy called. She came outside and stared up at the roof, expecting to see her son there, then cast her eyes around the paddock, disoriented. So many days had gone by with such little sleep, the hours were melding. She went back inside and checked the clock.
“Relax, Wendy,” she reassured herself, heading back out onto the porch. Recollections of her dream came to her, even now as she felt herself nodding back into sleep. She thought there had been a hole in the wall next to their bed—two in fact, one for each eye. Yes, and John was not there—there was the sense that he was on the other side of the wall, and certain things had to happen if she were to roll over and see his eyes looking through the other side, feel his presence there. She was like a prisoner, but a happy one, one long at peace with her misery, her sad, bed-bound life. Now that she thought about it, she had been awake and looking at the wall in the dark, trying to meet her husband’s eyes. A profound shudder ran through her. But there had been a turn at some point; something undoubtedly had been in the room—she arose with tears in her eyes, cheeks red and swollen, the dream had ended with some kind of silent berating, by some kind of silent and hidden entity, and she had woken amid morbid groans and gasps, mortally afraid for her children’s lives, hence the search for Daniel. But he was good on his feet like his father and enjoyed his spot on the roof, looking out toward town. The clouds, he said, seemed bigger too from up there, where the horizon bore its naked blue belly.
Still biting her lip, Wendy stood, scooping up the mushroom basket and headed to the woods.