Isaac stared at his cuts in the dull reflection of the serving platter. Most of the scabs had fallen off, revealing pink skin underneath, but the feeling of the creature’s nails tearing into his flesh until they hit bone was still there. When he turned his head too swiftly, sharp pains ran down the length of his right arm to his fingertips, but it was getting better each day, and he took comfort in this.

Three days. That’s how long his father had said he’d be away.

Isaac squinted into the burnt orange of the morning sun as it poured in through the hopper window of the cellar. He walked to the workbench next to the sink, where a jar of marbles sat. He took out the last marble from a tin can sitting on a shelf and dropped it into the jar. Thirty-five marbles in all. Thirty-five days since their father had left.

He sighed deeply, feeling the tightness of his asthma in his lungs and throat, and turned around to face the cellar. Simon was still asleep, splayed on a bed of cardboard laid on top of boxes and snoring gently. At the opposite end of the cellar, covered holes dotted the dirt floor where he and his brother had to relieve themselves.

Opened boxes were scattered about. A few were stacked haphazardly against a wall like slumping bricks, with those on the bottom buckling under the weight. The boys had gone through each of them and found old clothes, kitchen appliances, forgotten toys, unfinished coloring books. In the center space sat a makeshift game table made from a cardboard square with a checkerboard colored in with crayons, and coins and buttons for pieces.

The first few days had been the worst. He and his brother did little but hide in the corner of the cellar, away from the hatch, away from the windows, sitting with drawn knees and bowed heads behind the cover of boxes. When they spoke, it was in whispers, and when they slept, it was with the fear that they would awake in the middle of the night screaming.

One of their most frightening moments had occurred early on when darkness had fallen and they were trying to ward off the cold with the warmth of one another’s bodies. They had heard footsteps disturbing the gravel just outside the cabin, an uneven gait of a thing attempting to regain its balance.

Isaac felt Simon’s fingers digging into his arms, and he had held his breath, expecting the front door to crash open at any moment and the sounds of agitated footfalls on the floorboards overhead.

He had considered grabbing his brother’s hand and running out of the cabin while they still had a chance, but this noise, the crunching of the gravel that seemed to explode in the quiet of the night, had receded and was not heard again.

It was a deer, they had reasoned, and saying this was the only way they could find a measure of solace, enough at least, to help them fall asleep at night.

As the days passed, uncertainty and dread gave way to restlessness, so they emerged from their hiding place in the corner and began to explore the cellar. They meticulously searched the boxes, put on extra layers of clothing they had long outgrown, and conceived games of imagination that transported them to faraway places.

Thirty-five days.

Isaac counted the remaining cans of beef stew again. That morning after entering the cellar, they had found three cases—sixty cans in all—and they had eaten their fill each day. But when they realized their time in the cabin would be longer than they had first believed, they rationed their food to one can a day and eventually to half a can.

Hunger became predominant. They drank water from the sink to fill their stomachs, lay quietly on the bed of cardboard, and talked about the foods they missed.

Isaac picked up a can of stew, took it to his sleeping brother, and jostled him gently.

“Simon… Simon… wake up...”

Simon sat up and rubbed his eyes groggily.

“I’m hungry,” he said.

“I know. Here, eat this.”

Isaac pulled the top from the can and handed it to Simon, who felt around for his spoon. Finding it under the blanket, he cleaned it with his shirt and ate with intermittent grunts.

After a few spoonfuls, he offered the stew to his brother.

“No,” Isaac said, “you have it all. I’m okay.”

Simon’s eyes widened.

“Really?”

Simon took another bite, and another, and another.

“Are you really gonna eat the whole thing?” Isaac asked with irritation.

“I thought you said I could,” Simon said with his mouth full.

“I was just trying to do what Mom and Dad would do.”

Simon chewed and swallowed.

“Oh, right. I’m sorry, Isaac… I was just so hungry…”

“I know.”

“Here, you have the rest.”

Isaac accepted the food, which had about a quarter left, and he ate, savoring each bite. When he had scraped off the last bit of the stew with his finger, he set the can down on the cardboard.

“We have to leave here, Simon.”

“Where are we going?”

“To find food.”

“How are we gonna do that?”

“We’ll set traps, like how Dad taught us. And we can go down to the lake and try to catch some fish. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll go down to Arrow Springs. It has a restaurant and a market. Maybe even some adults who can help us.”

Simon was staring out one of the windows, his face scrunched into a frown. Isaac knew what his brother was thinking, for he was having the same thoughts.

“So, when do we have to leave?” Simon asked.

“Now.”