The Last Hello

The knife was already in my hand when the door opened.

Not that I planned it that way. Some habits live in the muscle, not the mind. Three years of scraping fish scales and gutting mackerel had turned my fingers into things that moved before I told them to. So when the door swung inward and the woman fell through it, I was already halfway to a fight stance with a blade between us.

She hit the floor hard. Knees first, then palms, then her forehead cracked against the wooden planks. She didn't scream. That was what got me. She just lay there, breathing in these ragged little gasps, like a fish thrown onto the dock too early.

I didn't move. The knife stayed up.

"Who are you?"

She lifted her head. Her face was a mess of bruises, purple and yellow and that strange green that means the damage is a few days old. One eye was swollen shut. The other found me, found the knife, and didn't flinch.

"You're the girl who kills fish," she said.

Not a question. A statement. Like she'd read it somewhere and was just confirming.

"I'm the girl who locks her door," I said. "And you just broke in."

She laughed. It sounded like broken glass in a tin can. "I didn't break anything. The lock was already busted. You should get that fixed."

I lowered the knife an inch. She was right. The lock had been loose for three months. I kept meaning to fix it. Kept not doing it. That's the thing about living alone on the edge of a dying fishing town. You stop caring about the small things because the big things are already eating you alive.

"What do you want?"

She tried to stand. Made it to her knees before her arms gave out. I didn't help her. I'm not that kind of person.

"My son," she said. "They took my son."

The words hung in the air like smoke. I waited for more. She didn't give it.

"Who took him?"

"The men from the mountain."

I felt something cold slide down my spine. The mountain. Everyone in Port Blossom knew about the mountain. It sat above the town like a judgment, all dark pines and gray rock and stories that mothers told their children to keep them from wandering too far. Stories about the people who lived up there. The ones who didn't come down. The ones who took things.

"The mountain is just a mountain," I said. It came out flat. Wrong.

She looked at me with her one good eye. "You don't believe that."

I didn't. But I wasn't about to admit it to a stranger who'd broken into my shack at midnight.

"I don't know you," I said. "I don't know your son. I kill fish. That's what I do. I'm not a rescuer."

She pulled something from her pocket. A photograph, creased and faded, edges soft from handling. She held it out. I didn't take it.

"His name is Elias. He's nine years old. He has a birthmark on his left shoulder that looks like a crescent moon. He's afraid of the dark but he won't admit it. He likes to collect stones from the beach, flat ones that skip. He has a box of them under his bed."

I still didn't take the photograph.

"I'm not the person you're looking for."

"You're the only person I've found who isn't afraid."

That stopped me. I looked at her again. Really looked. She was wearing a coat that had once been expensive, now torn and dirty. Her hands were raw, nails broken. She'd been running for a while. Running and hiding and probably watching.

"Everyone in this town is afraid," she said. "I've been here three days. I've watched them. They know about the mountain. They know what happens. And they do nothing. They pretend not to see. They close their shutters at night and they pray that whatever comes down the slope doesn't stop at their door."

She pushed the photograph toward me again. This time I took it.

The boy was smiling. That's what got me. He was smiling in the way that children do when they haven't yet learned that the world can take things from you. He had his mother's eyes. Dark and sharp and too old for his face.

"When did they take him?"

"Four days ago. I've been walking since."

"Walking from where?"

"The city. We moved there after his father died. I thought we'd be safe. I thought the mountain couldn't reach us there."

I looked at the photograph for a long time. The knife was still in my other hand. The fish scales were still under my fingernails. I had a shift at the cannery in five hours. I had rent due in six days. I had a life that was small and quiet and mine.

"Go to the sheriff," I said.

She laughed again. That same broken sound. "The sheriff has a brother who lives on the mountain. The sheriff sends them supplies twice a month. The sheriff knows."

I set the photograph on the table. Laid the knife beside it. Rubbed my face with both hands and tried to think of a reason to say no.

That's the thing about being the kind of person who doesn't help. You think you've built walls high enough. You think you've made yourself small enough that no one will ask. But then someone shows up at your door with a photograph and a story and a face that's been beaten half to death, and you realize the walls were never really there. They were just painted on.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Rina."

"Rina. I'm going to make you some tea. Then I'm going to ask you some questions. And then I'm going to decide whether I believe you."

She nodded. Didn't thank me. I liked that.

I turned to light the stove. Behind me, I heard her slump against the wall, the air leaving her lungs in a long, slow exhale. The sound of someone who'd been holding their breath for days.

Outside, the wind came down from the mountain. It rattled the windows and slipped through the cracks in the walls and wrapped around my ankles like a cold hand reminding me that I was still there. Still alive. Still capable of making the wrong choice.

I lit the burner and put the kettle on.

The photograph stayed on the table. The boy kept smiling.