Day 1
Jonathan
Mrs. Wheeler's voice, filtering through the closed bedroom door, woke Jonathan from a restless sleep. Through the window the sky was a dusky gray streaked with pre-dawn ribbons of gold. The brightest stars were still vaguely visible in the darkest corners. He pushed back the scratchy wool blankets and sat up, arching his back and wincing. The floor hadn't made for a particularly comfortable bed, especially since he'd used his own sweatshirt, balled into a lumpy mound, as a pillow. Standing next to the wood stove was his mom. She eyed him carefully and put her finger to her lips, reminding him that there were still some people asleep. She didn't look like she'd gotten any rest, though. Her eyes were bloodshot and the pouches of skin beneath were puffy and dark. An ashtray sitting on top of the stove was full of butts.
Jonathan stood up, rubbed his eyes and surveyed the room. Hopper was gone, but Steve was still asleep on a rug against the far wall. Mr. Wheeler was nowhere to be seen.
The bedroom door opened halfway and Mrs. Wheeler's head poked out. "Oh, Joyce, can you grab me the thermometer?" she asked.
"Really, Mom," Nancy was saying from inside. "I feel okay. Great, actually!" Jonathan craned his neck to peek inside, but his mom pushed past with the glass thermometer held forward. They disappeared into the bedroom for another few minutes.
"Hey," Steve said groggily. He uncovered himself and sat forward, stifling a yawn. "How's Nance doing?"
Jonathan shook his head just as the bedroom door opened again. Mrs. Wheeler held the thermometer pinched between her fingers. "Fever's gone," she said simply.
"Gone?" Steve repeated.
Mrs. Wheeler shrugged, hurrying past to the front door. "Twenty-four hour flu, maybe." Then she disappeared, off to scour the campsite for her husband and sister.
Jonathan turned to his mom. "Did anyone else arrive after I fell asleep?"
She shook her head and pressed herself against the wall, peering out the window as Mrs. Wheeler stalked away. The sun had broken over the horizon and a shaft of warm light flooded the cabin, catching dust motes twirling in the air.
"Morning," Nancy said from the bedroom doorway. She was still wearing the same striped shirt she'd changed into the day before. It seemed like ages ago to Jonathan, but it hadn't even been twelve hours. Somehow, despite everything – the attack, their escape, her unexplained illness – Nancy looked radiant. Her eyes were bright; her smile was brilliant and she seemed to fill the room with a sudden energy. Jonathan glanced at Steve and his mom, a little smile playing at his lips. For being dangerously ill all night, Nancy managed to look better than anyone else in the morning.
"Well," Joyce announced, clapping her hands together. "I am going to get some water." She picked up a five-gallon plastic jug from Hopper's camping supplies. "And use the restroom," she added quietly. When she got to the door, she turned to Jonathan. "Stay here in case the kids wake up."
As soon as she was gone, he asked Nancy, "Are you okay?"
"How's your back?" Steve asked.
Nancy's smile faltered as she shot an accusing look at Jonathan. "Who else did you tell?" she asked.
Jonathan's eyes opened innocently. He rounded on Steve for support, then said, "No one. And you were there when Steve found out." He searched Nancy's face for any sign of recognition. "In the car? Remember, on our way here?"
Nancy squinted at the floor, her eyes darting back and forth as she flipped through the past twelve hours. "I don't remember much," she admitted. "I barely remember driving here." She lifted her head at peered outside at the dew-laden grass, shimmering in the morning light, and the mist that curled sleepily off of the pond. "River Valley," she said to herself.
Jonathan exchanged glances with Steve and asked, "So, how is your back?"
Nancy ran her fingers along the wound without wincing in pain. "It feels…" She bit her lip and looked outside again, like she was making sure the coast was clear. Then she turned and lifted her shirt a few inches, revealing the very bottom of the cut. "There aren't any mirrors in here. What does it look like? It feels like—"
"A scar," Jonathan finished, gaping at the knotted pink strip that cut across her skin.
"Yeah," Nancy agreed. "It feels like a scar."
Steve looked horrified. "There is no way that happened yesterday," he stated in disbelief.
Jonathan understood his skepticism. There wasn't the hint of a scab, let alone the bloody gash that had been there last night. The skin had healed over, leaving a shiny, pink ridge in its place. Nancy pulled her shirt back down just as Mrs. Wheeler and Mrs. Harrington walked through the front door.
