He's cradling the gun. The ammunition box is on the kitchen counter, bullets spilling across the Formica. Blue's barking has reached a pitch and tempo he reserves for pelicans and unwelcome guests.
"Go!"
Pop raises the gun and walks steadily toward the door, aiming through the screen at chest height. He won't let the person on the other side come in. She is terrified he won't let them leave.
Sabine enters the kitchen on all fours, spidering across the floorboards. She crouches behind the counter.
"Leave it," she hisses and runs her hand past Blue's nose. On command, he drops and falls quiet. His eyes stay fixed on the screen door, still swinging after Pop barged through.
Outside the window, Sabine can see the silhouettes of two bodies, one pressing forward and the other backing away. Her palms are slick; water drips from her hair to pool on the floor, dark as blood. The air is heavy with humidity and danger. All signs are telling her to leave, like Pop said, but the realization that the trespasser is a woman makes her pause. A long- dormant instinct is taking over, one that goes back to childhood— distract, deescalate,
protect.
With her hand, she stays Blue.
She crosses the room to the door and peers through the screen. Her grandfather and the woman are moving slowly toward the far end of the porch.
Yellow light from the lantern on the sill passes briefly over Pop's features before he fades into shadows.
Sabine reels in shock.
The woman's presence is disturbing enough, but Pop's appearance takes her breath away. In the dark she didn't notice the new lines and hollows, and his eyes, always bright, are now sunken and dull. In less than three months, he appears to have lost a quarter of his body weight, and he's moving as if each step is agonizing. Compared to the woman, Pop seems the lesser threat.
The cancer. It's back.
"Face the wall," Pop says through gritted teeth.
The woman does as he says. Her midlength dark hair is tied in a low ponytail, and she's wearing a white blouse and navy skirt. Her stockinged feet are coated in mud. Everything about her screams desk job, government, or cop. Pop has her by the back of the neck, the barrel of the gun pressed between her shoulder blades. She's trembling, her head ducked in a show of submission.
"Don't turn around," Pop says.
"Okay," the woman answers. "Okay."
"You've seen the signs," Pop growls.
She nods.
"Then you knew what you were getting into."
Sabine knows whatever happens next, they'll be coming for her. She cracks open the door, steps outside. She can't let them take him too.
"Pop."
He freezes, then jerks his head. "It's her."
The neighbor.
"Go back inside," Pop mutters.
But it's pointless— the woman has turned her head.
The tension inside Sabine releases. Pop is sick again. By the look of him, he's never been closer to death. There's only the inevitability of what will come.
She goes to her grandfather and presses down on the gun barrel, lowering it. For a moment he resists, but she puts her other hand on his shoulder and squeezes.
He's shaking. There's blood on his lips.
"Pop," she says. "Enough."
