- That night, I was lying on the rug next to Dutch.
- My stomach was cramping. I hadn’t eaten since the granola bar that morning. Neither had he.
- I was staring at the ceiling. At the dark rafters.
- The fire was dying. I’d run low on kindling. I was saving the big logs for later. For two in the morning. When it would be coldest.
- That’s when I noticed it.
- Cold air.
- Coming up through the floor.
- Not around the windows. I’d stuffed newspaper in the gaps. Not under the door. I’d rolled up my sweatshirt and pushed it against the crack.
- It was coming from directly under me.
- Through the boards.
- Under the rug.
- I put my hand flat on the rug.
- I could feel it. A thin, steady stream of cold air. Pushing up. Right through the weave.
- Dutch lifted his head.
- He stood up. Slowly. On his three good legs.
- He turned around.
- He put his nose down on the rug.
- Right where my hand was.
- He sniffed.
- Then he started to whine.
- Low. Urgent.
- He pawed at the rug.
- “What is it?” I said. “What’s down there?”
- He pawed again.
- He looked at me.
- He whined.
- I got up.
- I grabbed the edge of the braided rug.
- I pulled it aside.
- Underneath were floorboards. Old. Gray. Covered in years of dirt and dust.
- I almost didn’t see it.
- But Dutch was standing on one particular spot. His nose pressed to the boards.
- I knelt down.
- I brushed away the dust with my hand.
- There was a line.
- Straight. Perfectly straight. Cut into the floorboards. Running across three of them.
- Then another line. At a right angle.
- Then another.
- Then another.
- A square.
- Three feet by three feet.
- Cut so perfectly into the floor it was almost invisible. The edges sanded flush. Hidden under years of dirt.
- On one edge, set into a little notch in the wood, was a ring.
- Iron. Black. The size of my palm.
- My hands were shaking.
- I hooked my fingers through the iron ring.
- I pulled.
- It didn’t move.
- I pulled harder.
- It creaked.
- I braced my feet. I leaned back. I pulled with everything I had.
- The square lifted.
- A trapdoor. Heavy. Thick planks. Hinged on one side. It swung up and fell back against the floor with a bang that shook the cabin.
- Cold air rushed up into my face.
- And a smell.
- Earth. Stone. Wax. Something sweet.
- Below was darkness.
- And a ladder.
- I grabbed a burning stick from the stove.
- I held it over the hole.
- Stone.
- Stone walls. A stone floor. Six feet down. A room. Maybe ten feet by ten feet.
- The ladder went straight down.
- And on the walls, shelves.
- Wooden shelves. Floor to ceiling. Every wall.
- Full.
- I climbed down the ladder.
- Slowly. Holding the burning stick. My heart pounding so hard I could hear it.
- I reached the bottom.
- I turned around.
- Jars.
- Hundreds of them.
- Mason jars. Glass. With metal lids. Lined up in rows. Every shelf.
- Green beans. Corn. Tomatoes. Peaches. Applesauce. Pickles. Beets.
- Big bags of rice. Tied with twine. Sealed in plastic.
- Cans of beans. Dozens of them.
- Flour in a metal tin. Sugar in another. Oatmeal. Powdered milk. Salt. Coffee.
- On another shelf, blankets. Wool. Folded. Stacked six high. Green and gray. Army surplus.
- Candles. Long white ones. Two boxes.
- Lamp oil. Four cans. And two kerosene lanterns.
- Rope. A hatchet. A saw. A shovel.
- A first-aid kit. Red. Big. The kind they have in schools.
- A bag of dog food.
- A bag of dog food.
- Forty pounds. Purina. Unopened.
- Someone had stocked enough supplies to survive an entire winter.
- I stood in the middle of the stone room.
- Holding a burning stick.
- Shaking.
- Then I saw it.
