I Saw Him Waiting at the Border

 I Saw Him Waiting at the Border VIDEO

I crouch behind a rock. Emma presses herself to the ground with Sam underneath her. The woman doesn’t move. She has her gun half-drawn, her hand frozen over the grip.

“Don’t shoot,” I say.

She doesn’t answer. She just looks at me. Her eyes move over my face, my wet clothes, the backpack on the ground.

“Who are you?” she asks.

“A traveler.”

“A traveler?”

“We need to cross the border.”

She lowers her hand. Not all the way. She keeps it resting on the gun, ready.

“Are you one of the people looking?” she asks.

“Looking for who?”

“The men who arrived yesterday. They asked about a family.”

“No. They’re the ones chasing us.”

She blinks. Studies my face again. Then she looks at Emma, still shielding Sam.

“Is she your wife?”

“Yes.”

“Is the boy yours?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you coming from?”

“Milwaukee.”

“And you’re going to Canada?”

“Yes.”

She falls silent for a moment. The wind moves the fog around her.

“I’m Martha,” she says. “I live in the post on the other side.”

“The border post?”

“The old one. They closed it years ago. But I stayed.”

“You live there?”

“Yes. Alone.”

She looks at Sam, who peeks out from under Emma’s arm.

“They’re hungry,” she says.

“Yes.”

“And cold.”

“That too.”

She nods. She takes her hand off the gun completely.

“You can spend the night at my place. Tomorrow, I’ll help you cross.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not a bad person. And because those men looking for you... I don’t like them.”

Emma looks at me. Waiting for my decision.

“Can we trust her?” she asks quietly.

“I don’t know.”

“But we don’t have another option.”

“No.”

I get to my feet. I help Emma stand. Sam clings to her neck.

“All right,” I say. “Thank you.”

Martha nods. She turns and walks into the fog. We follow her.

The border post house is small. A wooden structure with a tin roof. A chimney is smoking. The door creaks when she opens it.

Inside, the warmth hits my face. A wood stove burns in one corner. There’s a table, two chairs, a narrow bed. Everything neat. Clean.

“Sit down,” Martha says. “I’m going to make something to eat.”

Emma sets Sam down in a chair. He looks around with wide eyes.

“Where are we, Dad?”

“In a safe place.”

“Are we there yet?”

“Almost.”

Martha puts a pot on the stove. Pours in water. Takes cans out of a cupboard.

“I’ve got vegetable soup,” she says. “And stale bread. It’s not a feast, but it’ll warm your stomach.”

“That’s enough,” Emma says.

We sit down. The heat loosens my muscles. My shoulder hurts less.

Martha stirs the soup. She glances at us over her shoulder.

“There’s something I should tell you,” she says.

“What?”

“The men chasing you passed through here yesterday. They asked if I’d seen a family. I said no.”

“Thank you.”

“But one of them stayed behind. A tall guy, black suit. Said he was going to wait in the woods, near the crossing.”

Jack feels a knot tighten in his stomach.

“Is he still there?”

“I don’t know. I left before dawn to get firewood. When I came back, he was gone. But there could be others.”

“How many were there?”

“Three total. Two men and a woman. The woman was carrying a pistol.”

“A detective?”

“I don’t know. But she seemed to know what she was looking for.”

“Sarah Mitchell,” Emma says.

“Maybe.”

Martha serves the soup into four bowls and brings them over. Sam takes his with both hands.

“Thank you,” he says.

“You’re welcome, little one.”

We eat in silence. The hot soup fills my empty stomach. The fatigue settles deeper into my bones.

“Why are you helping us?” I ask.

Martha sets down her spoon. Looks at me steadily.

“Because I had to run once too. A long time ago. And someone helped me.”

“What were you running from?”

“A man who wanted to kill me. He didn’t make it.”

“What happened to him?”

“He died. It doesn’t matter how.”

I nod. I don’t ask anything else.

After we eat, Martha shows us a small room in the back. Two mattresses on the floor. Clean blankets.

“You can sleep here. Tomorrow, at dawn, I’ll take you to the crossing.”

“Any problem with the man in the suit?”

“We’ll avoid him. There’s a trail that goes around the post to the east. It leads straight to the other side.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I know it well.”

Emma lays Sam down on one of the mattresses. He curls up under the blanket and closes his eyes almost immediately.

“Thank you, Martha,” Emma says.

“You’re welcome. Rest.”

Martha leaves. She closes the door behind her.

I sit on the edge of the mattress. Emma sits beside me.

“She’s okay,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“But we can’t trust her completely.”

“I know.”

“Tomorrow we cross. And after that...”

“After that, we start over.”

She rests her head on my shoulder.

“That sounds good.”

“Yeah.”

Outside, the wind blows. The fog thickens. But inside this little house, for the first time in days, I feel like we can rest.

I close my eyes. I hear Sam’s breathing. Emma’s. The fire crackling in the stove.

Tomorrow we cross the border.

But tonight, we’re safe.

I don’t sleep. I stay seated on the edge of the mattress, staring at the half-open door. The stove’s light slips through the crack. Martha moves in the main room. I hear her footsteps on the wood.

Emma breathes deeply. Sam too. They’re asleep.

I rise slowly. I walk to the room’s entrance. I look into the main room. Martha is sitting in a chair, facing the stove. She has a cup of tea in her hands. She looks at me.

“Can’t sleep?” she asks.

“I can’t.”

“I understand.”

“What are you thinking?” I ask.

“I’m thinking tomorrow will be hard. The trail is narrow. Rocky. Easy to defend if someone is waiting.”

“Do you think the man in the suit is still there?”

“I don’t know. But if he is, we need to be ready.”

“Do you have a weapon?”

“A shotgun. Old, but it works.”

“Could I borrow it?”

She takes a sip of tea. Studies me.

“Do you know how to use it?”

“Yes.”

“It’s in the cupboard, behind the door. Two shells.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Just make sure you give it back if you don’t use it.”

I nod. I go back into the room and open the cupboard carefully so I don’t make noise. The shotgun is leaning against the wall. I take it. It’s heavy. The metal is cold.

I return to the edge of the mattress. I set the gun beside me. I lean my back against the wall and stare at the door.

The fire crackles. The night moves on.

I wait.

The hours pass slowly. The shotgun rests across my legs. The metal warms with my body heat.

Outside, the wind beats against the walls. Fog drifts behind the window. I don’t hear footsteps. I don’t hear engines.

Martha gets up. She puts out the stove. Walks over to me.

“They’ll be up soon,” she says.

“I know.”

“Did you sleep at all?”

“No.”

“It shows.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

She nods. Opens the house door. Cold air rushes in. The fog is thinner now. The forest is visible, the trees wet.

“The trail is east,” she says. “Behind the birches.”

“How long?”

“An hour walking. Maybe less if you move fast.”

“And the man in the suit?”

“I didn’t see him last night when I came back. But that means nothing.”

I tuck the shotgun under my arm. I go into the room. Emma is already awake. She sits on the mattress. Sam is still asleep.

“Is it time?” she asks.

“Yes.”

She wakes Sam gently. He rubs his eyes.

“Are we leaving now, Dad?”

“Yes.”

“To Canada?”

“Yes.”

“Is there snow there?”

“Maybe.”

“I like snow.”

I smile. I lift him up. Wrap him in my jacket. We walk out to the main room.

Martha is waiting by the door. She hands us a cloth bag.

“Bread. Water. Some dried fruit. Enough for a day.”

“Thank you,” Emma says.

“Follow the trail without drifting off it. When you see a creek, cross it. On the other side, a hill. Behind the hill, the border.”

“Is there wire?”

“Broken down. You can go underneath.”

I nod. I tighten my grip on the shotgun. We step out into the cold.

The fog is lifting. The sun rises behind the trees. We walk east. The trail is narrow, covered in wet leaves. Sam shifts in my arms. Emma limps behind me with the stick.

The forest closes in around us. The silence is absolute.

But I don’t hear footsteps behind us.

Only the wind. Only morning.

The trail winds between the birches. Wet leaves soften my steps. Sam breathes against my neck. Emma walks behind me, her cane tapping the ground at regular intervals.

“How much farther?” she asks.

“Martha said first the creek, then the hill.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“Neither do I. But we keep going.”

The woods thicken. The trees lean over the trail, forming a tunnel. The light turns greenish. The air smells of wet earth and pine.

Suddenly, the trail opens. A creek. Clear water running over stones. Wide, but not too wide. You can cross by jumping from rock to rock.

“There,” I say.

I stop at the bank. Look for the best way across. Sam wakes up.

“Water, Dad?”

“Yes. We’re crossing it.”

“Are there fish?”

“Maybe.”

I step onto the first rock. It wobbles, but holds. I jump to the next. Sam laughs.

“Faster, Dad!”

“Careful.”

I reach the other side. I set Sam down. Emma crosses carefully, leaning on the stick. The stones are slippery. She hesitates at the last one. I offer my hand.

“Take it.”

“Thank you.”

She crosses. We dry our feet as best we can. The path keeps climbing. The hill rises between the trees, covered in dry grass and rocks.

“Behind that hill,” I say.

“What if the man is there?”

“Then we face him.”

I tighten my hold on the shotgun. We climb the slope. The grass is wet. Mud sticks to my boots.

When we reach the top, I stop. I look down. On the other side, a narrow valley. And beyond it, a line of rotten wooden posts. Fallen wire.

The border.

“There it is,” Emma says.

“Yes.”

“I don’t see anyone.”

“Neither do I.”

I lower my gaze to the base of the hill. A figure. Still. In a black suit. He’s watching us.