The Passage - By Justin Cronin Page 0,127

warmer and did her Apgars. Then she put a hat on the baby’s tiny head and wrapped her in a blanket and handed her to Wolgast. How astonishing! Suddenly it was all behind them, all the pain and panic and worry, and here was this sparkling new being in the room. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this, the feel of a baby, his daughter, in his arms. Eva was small, just five pounds. Her skin was warm and pink—the pink of sun-ripened peaches—and, as he pressed his face close to hers, gave off a smoky smell, as if she’d been plucked from a fire. They were sewing Lila up; she was still groggy from the drugs. Wolgast was surprised to find there was blood on the floor, a wide dark slick below her; in all the confusion, he had never seen this happen. But Lila was fine, the doctor said. Wolgast showed her their baby and then held Eva a long, long time, saying her name over and over, before they took her to the nursery.

· · ·

Amy grew stronger by the day, but her sensitivity to light did not abate. Wolgast found, in one of the outbuildings, stacks of plywood and a ladder, and a hammer and saw and nails. He had to measure and cut the boards by hand, then carry them up the ladder and hold them in place while he nailed, to seal the windows of the second floor. But after the long climb at the compound—a feat that, in hindsight, seemed completely incredible—this small, ordinary chore seemed like not so much.

Amy rested most of each day, awakening at dusk to eat. She asked him about where they were—Oregon, he explained, in the mountains, a place where he had gone to camp as a boy—but never why; she either knew already or didn’t care. The lodge’s propane tank was nearly full. He cooked small, easy meals on the stove, soups and stews from cans, crackers and cereal wetted with powdered milk. The camp’s water supply was faintly sulfurous but otherwise drinkable, and poured from the kitchen pump so icy cold it made his fillings tingle. He could see right away he hadn’t brought nearly enough food; he’d have to go down the mountain soon. In the basement he’d found boxes of old books—classic novels in a bound set, moldy with age and dampness—and at night under the glow of candlelight he read to her: Treasure Island, Oliver Twist, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.

Sometimes she would come out during the day, if it was cloudy, and watch him do the chores—cutting wood, fixing a hole in the roof under the eaves, trying to make heads or tails of an old gasoline generator he’d found in one of the sheds. Amy would sit on a tree stump in the shade, wearing her glasses and cap, with a long towel tucked under the headband to cover her neck. But these visits never lasted long; an hour, and her skin would turn a ferocious pink, as if scalded by hot water, and he’d send her back upstairs again.

One evening, after they had been at the camp for nearly three weeks, he took her down the path to the lake to bathe. Apart from her brief hours outside watching him work, she hadn’t ventured from the lodge, and never so far. At the base of the path was a rickety dock, extending thirty feet past the grassy shoreline. Wolgast stripped to his underclothes and told Amy to do the same. He’d brought towels, shampoo, a bar of soap.

“Do you know how to swim?”

Amy shook her head.

“All right, I’ll teach you.”

He took her by the hand and led her into the lake. The water was shockingly cold. They stepped together into deeper water, until it reached Amy’s chest. Wolgast picked her up then and, holding her horizontally, told her to move her arms and legs, like so.

“Let go,” she told him.

“Are you sure?”

She was breathing quickly. “Uh-huh.”

He released her; she sank like a stone. Through the ice-clear water, Wolgast could see that she’d stopped moving; her eyes were open and looking around, like an animal examining some new habitat. Then, with a startling grace, she extended her arms and brought them around, turning her shoulders and pushing herself through the water in a deft, froglike motion. A perfect whip kick: in an instant she was gliding along the sandy bottom, gone. Wolgast was about to dive in after her