I sigh. “Dr. Jindal dropped it the other day when she was bringing in the mail. I picked it up, and when I saw who it was addressed to…”
I flip it over so Quint can see Grace Livingstone’s name, and the post office stamp: DECEASED.
Understanding flickers across his features. “Maya’s grandma.”
“I know I shouldn’t have opened it, but…” I hesitate. But what, exactly? It seemed like the universe was trying to tell me something? I shake my head. “I shouldn’t have opened it. I’m sorry.”
Quint takes the card, and for a moment, he looks torn. But then a wisp of a smile crosses his face. “I would have been curious, too. I’ll tell Mom that I was the one who opened it, that I go to school with her granddaughter. I think she’ll understand.”
My heart expands. I wasn’t expecting that.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
A beat of silence passes between us, and then the energy shifts again. Quint smiles, easy and relaxed. “Are you hungry?” He juts his thumb toward the staircase. “I’ve got quarters for the vending machine. We could have Pringles by candlelight.”
“How romantic,” I say. “Except, I don’t think vending machines work during a power outage.”
He winces. “Damn. I bet you’re right. I don’t actually know if there are any candles, either.”
I shrug. “Let’s go find out.”
THIRTY-NINE
In the staff break room, we spend some time digging through the drawers jumbled with silverware, offices supplies, and random takeout menus that have probably been buried in here for the past decade. Ultimately, we find two boxes of birthday candles and a book of matches. Quint settles the candles into a decorative bowl full of sand and seashells and lights them. I’ve never seen birthday candles lit for longer than it takes to sing “Happy Birthday,” and I suspect they won’t last long, but for now, their glow is comforting and strangely joyful as the wind and rain rage outside. Plus, both of our phones are getting low on battery life, so we figure it’s best to conserve them as much as possible.
After digging through the cabinets, we pull together something like a picnic. An open bag of stale potato chips, some saltine crackers and peanut butter, a box of Cheerios, some marshmallows.
Even though I’d been joking before, as we settle in at the long conference table, it actually does feel romantic. The storm rattling against the windows. The glow of the candles.
And that we’re pretty much trapped here … together.
“Do you think we’ll be stuck here all night?” I ask, trying not to sound hopeful when I say it. Because it would be awful, right? Who wants to sleep on a cold, hard floor, when they could be safe at home in a cozy, warm bed?
And yet, I’m in no hurry to leave.
“I don’t know. At this rate…” Quint glances at the window. “It’s not looking good. Were your parents worried?”
“I think they’re okay. They said to stay here until the storm passes.”
He nods. “I guess we can use the blankets from downstairs to make a bed of sorts. It may not be the most comfortable thing in the world, but…”
“It could be worse.”
Which is true. We have shelter and food. It’s warm enough. There’s light for the time being, though the candles are burning awfully fast.
“At least we have cereal.” I pop a handful into my mouth.
The first candle flickers out, leaving a trail of dark smoke curling up through the shadows. We both look at our little collection of candles stuck into the sand. They’ve already nearly burned down to nubs.
“Maybe we should have rationed those,” says Quint.
“Isn’t there a flashlight around here somewhere?”
He considers this. “You’d think so.”
We go on a hunt again, risking the battery life of our phones to dig through every cabinet, closet, and cupboard we can find. Finally—success. We find five flashlights stashed away with some of the rescue nets and other supplies, although only three of them have batteries that work. While we’re downstairs, we fill our arms with as many blankets as we can carry before retreating back to the break room. We push the table against one bank of cabinets, clearing out a space large enough that we can spread out the blankets, building them up into something like a mattress. It occurs to me that maybe we should be making two separate beds, but … I don’t say anything, and neither does he.
“What would you be doing right now if you weren’t here?”