Josh read one section in the radio manual over and over, “Sending Code.” Uncle Carl told him not to worry about it. Receiving was more important than sending. He shut the manual and dropped it on the desk. Papa never used the manual, neither did Dad, but Josh would depend on it. Why hadn’t he memorized this stuff for the exam like Grandpa suggested? He could have aced that first one.
He swiveled in the chair. What if the radio cut out again? He could crank it, but electricity was easier, and that meant getting a solar circuit connected.
The radio began tapping out code. He tipped the chair over in his haste to grab paper and pencil. He jotted down the dots and dashes and used the chart. It began with CM, Uncle Carl’s call sign.
At hospital. Sis on drip. Sleeping.
His body slumped with relief. Drip meant IV in Uncle Carl-speak. He grabbed the Morse code chart and wrote out his message, then translated it into dots and dashes and typed.
- All good here. No Dad yet.
He ended with his dad’s call sign, EW. If he got a fine from the FCC, he’d just pay it. He sat back in the chair and scrubbed his face with his hands. Would the electricity come on before dad got home? Would they send the National Guard? Uncle Carl had gotten through, but his radio was short range, Grandpa’s was long. He placed a hand on the radio. It was warm to the touch, and he could picture Grandpa, last Christmas, sitting in this same chair sending messages late at night to his friend in Germany. Josh needed it to survive.
He gave the volume a final adjustment and opened the windows. The messages would rattle out loud enough to get his attention, and they repeated. He could write them down and translate them when he came in.
He climbed the steps and stood on the porch, scanning the yard. The sun warmed his face. Something glinted in the driveway. He kept the spot in his vision and hauled a solar panel from under the branches. He struggled to lift it without bending, carried it to the circuit frame where he found another panel tangled in the lower branches of a cedar tree.
Any tree still standing was a miracle as far as he was concerned. He reached between the branches and placed his hand on the bark, rough but warm. He cleared his throat and lifted this panel, placing it on the stack. Another panel lay right beside the frame flat on the ground covered with fir needles and scraps of plastic and paper.
This circuit held eight panels, and four were still in frames. Once repaired, he could switch from generator to solar power before the next storm, if the connections were solid. The generator worked, but it was noisy and attracted attention. He’d need it to keep the well pump, which meant a flushing toilet, water in the sink, and keep the radio running, which meant communication with the outside world.
He’d helped Grandpa install these panels, so fixing them wouldn’t be a problem. He held one and checked it for dents and cracks. They all seemed to be in good shape, considering the wind had ripped them out of the frame. He brushed off the debris and fit them, one by one, into the mountings. He removed the pliers from his back pocket and began tightening screws and refastening wires.
He brushed off his hands and headed to the breaker box in the pantry for the true test. Shining the flashlight on the main switch, he flipped it. Green. He disconnected the generator, recording the gas level in his notepad, just in case he needed to switch back.
He jogged down the stairs and sat before the radio. The echo of his empty tummy as it growled was the only drumroll he was going to get. The radio dials blipped, and a message rolled in from Anchorage. It was a tally of fishing boats lost at sea.
His tummy rumbled again. A sandwich with his name on it was calling. He took the steps two at a time and headed to the kitchen. Three days without a proper meal, and his mouth watered for pizza. What were the chances? He grabbed the fridge handle and opened the door. A blast of putrid odors rolled out and enveloped him.
“Aww.” He slammed the door. Too late, the smell of rotten salmon coated his nostrils.
Grandpa said without electricity the fridge would stay cold about four hours, the freezer about two days, and that was only if he didn’t open it. All it took was three days of storm, and everything was rotten. No pizza. Plugging his nose, he cracked the fridge door open again. Tones of broccoli added to the bouquet of fish. The catsup might be good. The lettuce had turned to slime. He’d prop the doors open and scrub it out, later. He shut the fridge and reached for the freezer door, eased it open a crack. Standing water with packages of chicken breasts and thawed beans floated in the bottom bin. What a waste.
He opened a cabinet, grabbed one of mom’s shopping bags, and filled it with boxes of pasta, crackers, and canned soup to haul to the basement. He found bread, strawberry jam, and peanut butter in another one. Not the cheese he was craving, but the rotted food had dulled his appetite anyway.
He’d make a sandwich then tackle the fridge before the next storm hit.
A jug of purified water sat on the counter, and he grabbed a glass and poured, then drank big gulps. It left him full for the time being. He placed the water next to the bag.
He slapped together a sandwich and ate it in four bites. Mom would have said, “chew, but she wasn’t here. His stomach growled again, and he rummaged through more cabinets, all the while taking inventory of the damage, four broken windows, one with a branch poking through, pine needles and glass covering the floor, the refrigerator full with rotten food, not too bad really.
He needed Dad to know that he could take care of the farm. Then maybe he’d consider taking it off the market. Besides, who would buy it now with all this damage. He took out the notepad and started a list.1. kitchen He gazed at the blue sky outside, and it drew him like a magnet to the back porch. He scanned the open expanse, so unfamiliar with all the trees that had fallen. Dark clouds were gathering in the southern sky. Not so soon? The muscles in his neck grew stiff and cramped. He rubbed them as the clouds boiled on the horizon.
Had Dad headed for home? Would he get caught in the next storm? Vandby stood in the path between the storm and the farm, and Vandby U was two miles on the other side, so Dad would have seventeen miles to walk before another storm hit. He’d never make it.
The dark clouds loomed closer, and he combed his fingers through his hair. Frantic birdcalls filled the air. The storm was moving fast. He still needed to board the windows. A stack of plywood sat in the barn from Grandpa’s sheep shed he’d never finished. He marched to the barn, loaded a tool belt with a hammer, a drill, and a fistful of fasteners.
He lifted a sheet of plywood and headed to the house. His arms cramped halfway. How had Grandpa unloaded that stack by himself? Leaning the plywood against the porch railing, he rubbed blood back into his aching arms. Grandpa had worked hard all his life, and it kept him in shape.
Josh began clearing away branches and glass then fastened the plywood over two living room windows. He used to help Grandpa do these chores. The weight of the plywood was nothing to the weight of his grief. He made two more trips to the barn and covered all the windows at the front of the house.
He checked the rest of the house. No broken windows on the north or east sides, thank heavens. The house should protect his solar panel circuit through the next storm, if luck was on his side, that is.
He collected his tools and headed back to the barn. A rustling in the branches drew his attention.
“Dad?” Was he imagining things now? He scanned the yard and beyond. Dad was out there somewhere. If the roads were as clogged as the driveway, it would be the toughest commute he’d ever make without traffic.
He dragged a garbage can from the barn to the living room. The hardwood floors bore deep scratches in the polished wood. The storm had left its mark on everything.
A row of blue dishes rimmed the dining room wall above the windows, his great-grandmother’s Danish plates. The winds had left them untouched. Josh stood mesmerized by each one. They told a story of family, home, and feasts during a time of candles before refrigeration. He could do this. People had survived very well without electricity. It would make life more difficult, though.
He threw branches outside and swept glass from the floors, his mind working through all the things that had happened over the last four days. Maybe his true calling was to be a carpenter not a doctor. Houses didn’t cry when he fixed them. This house was solid. His grandparents had saved them with their carpentry skills.
He dragged the full garbage can to the barn. Bird song filled the air. A branch cracked and something else. Voices? Josh ducked inside the barn door.
Two men climbed through the trees and branches blocking the driveway. He leaned against the barn wall. Every muscle he owned tensed. Why hadn’t he kept the hammer in his belt?
“If this…radio, maybe…Canada.”
He could only make out a few words as they spoke, but “radio” gave him a jolt. The men were headed to the house. Josh peered through a crack in the siding.
“I smell food, Bill, I’m telling you,” said a man in grimy jeans and a sport jacket with a tear in the left elbow. His face was smeared with dirt.
Bill had silver sprinkled through his dark shaggy hair, and he was scoping out Josh’s yard. His eyes seemed to glow from under black brows, his mouth hidden by a dark beard.
Bill stopped and held up a hand. “Hush, Chip.”
Josh was paralyzed. Who were these men? They weren’t farmers, not in those clothes.
Chip’s shoulder-length hair hung in dirty blond strands. His beard was patchy, like he’d tried to shave but the razor was dull. Had the shaggy-haired man spotted the antenna? He’d want the radio.
Josh gritted his teeth. How could he get rid of them now? He didn’t stand a chance if things got physical.
“What do you smell this time? Barbeque?” Bill’s boot cut jeans were as dirty as Chip’s.
Josh sank into a crouch. Why hadn’t he gone with Uncle Carl? Why hadn’t he taken weight training instead of racket sports? He backed deeper into the barn, his mind racing. He could sneak out the back and get to Uncle Carl’s before the next storm, or he could stay, like he’d begged Uncle Carl, and confront these guys.
There was something about Bill that seemed familiar. Was it his beard? The men headed to the house, and Josh’s belly did a flip. No, no, no. Not the house. Blood rushed from his head. Why had he swept up the glass? They’d be looking for the owners, for food, water, the radio.
They clomped up the porch steps and knocked. Knocking was a good sign, right? They didn’t just break the door down. Chip stood on tiptoe to peer over the plywood covering the living room window.
“Someone’s been cleaning.” Bill scanned the yard.
“I don’t smell food, though.” Chip sniffed the air.
“That’s because no one’s cooking, moron. You’ve smelled food ever since we left Vandby.” Bill jogged down the steps and headed around the house. Chip knocked again.
Vandby? If these guys had come all that way, Dad was probably right behind them. He reached in his pocket for the keys, empty. He hadn’t locked the front door, but why would he? He was too worried about boarding up windows, not looters.
Bill returned to stand beside Chip in the driveway. Josh had to do something. Clearing his throat, he stepped out of the barn.
“Can I help you?” Josh kept his face a blank mask, clenched his shaking fingers into fists.
Both men spun around.
“It’s a kid.”
“Shut it, Chip.” Bill’s red cotton shirt was open at the neck showing a yellowed T-shirt. “Your dad here?” Bill looked Josh up and down.
He’s sizing me up. Josh swallowed hard. “He’s rounding up cows. They’re spread from here to the next county.” Josh clamped his mouth shut. He’d said too much.
Bill grinned. Nothing seemed to escape his scrutiny. “Your mom here?”
Josh’s pulse jack hammered through his veins. He bit his bottom lip until it bled. “She’ll be back soon. Helping the neighbors, you know.” He had to change the topic. “Where’d you guys come from?”
Josh stood and thrust out his chest, but Bill and Chip were taller, more muscular in the chest and arms. Josh stuffed his shaking hands in his pockets.
“We walked all the way from little, old Vandby.” Bill rocked on his heels, his gaze taking in the barn, the yard, and the house, ending on Josh again.
Josh sniffed and wiped his nose. “That’s a long way. You must be thirsty?” What was he saying? He’d just told them he had water. Next, they’d want food. Josh glanced at the house. He had to get a message to Uncle Carl, but Bill and Chip stood between him and the radio.