Discord's Apple

He looked away and muttered, “I guess so.”

/> With better checkpoints, her mother might still be alive.

“You have a permit for the extra gas?”

She’d brought the gas because she hadn’t wanted to face fuel rationing or closed gas stations on the drive across the desert. The slip of paper was in her glove box. “I didn’t think security restrictions would be in effect out here.”

“Rules are rules. We have to keep track of people coming in and out of town.”

“So shouldn’t you have roadblocks at either end of Main Street?”

He shrugged, unconcerned. “We only have enough people for one checkpoint.”

“They have real checkpoints in L.A.,” she said. And lots of them, at every major exit and interchange. It sometimes took all day to get from Pomona to Hollywood.

“I bet. They also have a reason for ’em. I don’t know how you stand it.” He slammed closed the trunk. “How’s your dad?”

This was Hopes Fort: everybody must have known about him. “I haven’t seen him yet. You probably know better than I do.”

“He says he’s fine.”

That sounded like her father—always cheerful. “I should probably get out there.”

Johnny pulled the barrier out of the way (L.A. had automated titanium barriers) while she got back in the car.

“Thanks, Johnny.”

For three generations, the Walker family had lived in a brick ranch house on a few acres of prairie. Evie’s grandfather had grown up on the farm the land used to be part of. The farm had long since been broken up and sold, except for the token parcel and the house to which her grandparents had retired. They’d died when Evie was in college. Evie’s father had lived in town and worked as a mail carrier until five years ago, when he took his own place in rural retirement.

Evie still thought of it as her grandparents’ house, a place she went to for holidays and backyard adventures. Her father hadn’t changed it much when he moved in—he took over the furniture, the heirlooms, the pictures on the wall, the shelves full of books. At first, Evie had had trouble thinking of her father as anything more than a house sitter there. But over the last couple years, when she noticed that his hair was gray and that he had started wearing bifocals, he reminded her more and more of her grandparents. He had stopped being a visitor and metamorphosed into the house’s proper resident.

She was his only child, and the house would come to her someday. By the time she retired, there’d be nothing left of Hopes Fort and no reason to be here. Except it had been the place where her grandfather and father had grown up. She supposed that meant something.

Later in the afternoon than she’d planned, she pulled into the long driveway behind her father’s twenty-year-old rusting blue pickup. Out of habit, she locked her car, even though this was possibly the one place in the universe she could comfortably leave it unlocked. The house itself was well cared for, neat if unremarkable. It had a carport at the end of the driveway rather than a garage, screened windows, a small front porch, and an expansive front yard with a lawn of dried prairie grasses. She’d driven by a dozen places just like it to get here.

A dog, a huge bristling wolfhound-looking thing, sprang from the front porch, barking loud and deep like a growling bear.

Evie almost turned and ran. Her father didn’t have a dog.

The front door opened and Frank Walker appeared, looking out over the driveway. “Mab! Come, Mab, it’s all right.”

The dog stopped barking and trotted back to him, throwing suspicious glances over its shoulder.

He scratched the dog’s ears and took hold of the ruff of fur at its neck. “Come on up, Evie. Mab just gets a little excited.”

Cautiously, Evie continued to the porch. She had to lift her arm to show the animal the back of her hand—the thing’s head came up to her waist. The dog sniffed her hand, then started wagging its tail. Evie hoped it didn’t try jumping on her—it would be a body-slam.

“Meet Queen Mab,” her father said.

“When did you get a dog?”

“She was a stray. Showed up on the porch a while back. Since I caught a couple of prowlers last month, I thought having Mab around might be a good thing.”

“Prowlers? Out here?”

“Oh, prowlers, salesmen—you’d be surprised how many visitors I get.”

In fact, someone was standing in the doorway behind him.