Free Amity & Sorrow by Peggy Riley

gas cap.
    ‘I’ll need some coolant, too,’ he calls back to her, drumming his fingers on the wheel.
    ‘Yes, sir,’ she says to him. ‘Right away, sir.’
    The hood release pops and smoke billows over the car, sweet as syrup. Amity fiddles to unhook the gas pump as Sorrow, on the passenger side, spots the baby. Amity squeezes the trigger, but no gas comes. She doesn’t know how to work it. She turns to the pump and she hears the man holler, which makes her drop the pump, fling her hands up, and scream. Then she turns back to see that he is hollering at Sorrow, who is reaching in through the car’s rear window, trying to unhook the baby. She fumbles with the car seat’s webbing, some complicated kind of strap, while he turns his bulk around in his seat and the woman reaches over the back of hers, slapping at Sorrow’s hands.
    Amity takes hold of the driver’s window frame. ‘Will you take us with you? Will you take us home?’
    ‘Get the hell out of my car!’ The man starts his engine as Sorrow tries to get a better grip on the baby. The woman crawls over the back of her seat, cursing at Sorrow, and the car begins to roll forward, hood up, traveling blind. Sorrow jogs to keep up with it, arms in the window, pulling at the baby. The car speeds up, Sorrow trotting beside, and she makes one last desperate snatch. She misses. She drops back from the car, arms reaching, and it drives off, smoking and steaming, swerving and weaving, the man yelling, the woman howling, and, finally, the baby giving its own confused mewl.
    Amity waves her arms from the station. ‘Stop – stop!’ But they will not.
    Sorrow stares, her eyes as small and sharp as pins. ‘I had him.’
    ‘They would have taken us. Isn’t that what you wanted? To go home?’
    ‘I had him,’ she whispers. ‘Lamb of God.’

12
Home Preserves
    A maranth stands in the cool of the curtained pantry, itemizing. Old cans of candied yams, creamed corn, and succotash, labels crisp and flaking. Rust-topped Mason jars of home preserves, okra, wax beans, beets, applesauce, and spiced peaches in cloudy syrup. She counts and sorts the beans and grains, pulling what can be eaten from what is spoiled.
    There is food enough to feed her family. Not as much as her community had saved for Armageddon, but then they were nearly a hundred mouths. Who was meant to eat all this food? It is a sin to let it go to waste – surely that is one rule worth keeping. It is her duty – her right – to use this food before it rots. And before it is gone, she is certain that a sign will come for her and she will know what to do.
    She has her hands in barley pearls when she hears Bradley stomp onto the porch, the squeal of his door, the thud of his boots dropping, one, two. She freezes like a looter, fists full of grain. He hums his way into the kitchen with a tune she can almost remember, from long ago, something about love and dancing. He sings words here and there, taps out a beat on his table. She hears the rustle of a paper bag and a cap unscrewing from a bottle, his long, deep drink. She holds her breath but she knows it’s only a matter of time before she shifts something, makes some noise, and when she does he flings aside the pantry curtain, broom held in his hand like a sword.
    ‘Thought I had rats,’ he says.
    ‘Bird,’ she says.
    ‘In there?’ He sets the broom down and goes back to the table, jamming the bottle into the bag and folding his arms. ‘What are you doin’?’
    ‘It was in your fire. You should cap off your chimney.’
    ‘I’ll add it to the list.’ He looks at her, all the lids off the bean and the grain bins. ‘Somethin’ cookin’?’
    ‘Well, you have food here,’ she blurts. ‘Did you know? Grains, some flours. Beans?’
    ‘Gone off now. Old.’
    ‘Not all of it. I can sift out what’s good. I – I can pay you for it.’
    Bradley hitches a leg up to sit on his table, its joints creaking. ‘I asked what you were doin’ here,