“He invited me to see it last week,” Marnie had whispered conspiratorially. “It’s the loveliest little bridge I’ve ever seen. Or, I guess I shouldn’t call it little! It’s so high off the water that I was afraid of falling. There isn’t a bridge close to his house, you see, and he loves to go into the forest on the other side of the river to pick wild mushrooms. The men from the nearest farms all got together one weekend and helped him build it. It’s good to know his friends care for him so much.”
“Marnie told me that Mr. Peterson has a bridge.” Clare grabbed Dorran’s hand, excitement making her heart jump. “It wouldn’t be on the map since it’s a private property. But it’s high. Maybe high enough.”
“Good.” He grinned as he put the car into reverse and backed away from the overflowing river. “Which way?”
“Uh…” That was a problem. Clare didn’t actually know Mr. Peterson. Her entire knowledge of the region came from her aunt. She bit her lip as her smile faded. “Hm.”
“It’s all right. Take your time.”
Think, Clare. Where would he live? He was a farmer—she knew that much. But almost everyone along the winding rural road was a farmer of some kind or another. What else did Marnie tell you about him?
Two years’ worth of visits swam together in her mind. She hunted, furiously, looking for any hint or clue buried inside the chats.
“Mr. Peterson’s dog had puppies! Nine healthy golden retrievers.”
“Mr. Peterson down the road asked for some cuttings from my hydrangeas.”
“I’m thinking of getting a new letter box. Mr. Peterson replaced his for a lovely bright-green one, and I notice it every time I drive to town. It makes me want to up my game.”
Clare’s eyes snapped open. “Turn left on the main road. Marnie drove past Peterson’s property on her way to town, so it has to be down that way. He has a green letter box.”
The car swerved back towards the street. Clare hoped the letter box clue would be enough. The street was long, and their trip was already carrying them close to the edge of the map. If they had to drive much farther to reach Peterson’s property, she wasn’t sure how easily they could find their way back to the route to Beth’s.
That wouldn’t have been a problem in the old world. She could have looked up their location on her phone, and even if that hadn’t worked, she could have stopped at a service station or a house for directions. Now, she only had Dorran to rely on, and he only had her. Everything they needed had to come from what they knew or what they could find.
We’ll make it work.
Dorran drove quickly. He watched his side of the road, and Clare watched hers, both of them making note of every letter box they passed. Doubts began to crowd into Clare’s mind. That little bit of trivia was at least two years old. Peterson might have changed his box since then. It might have come down in the snows. Clare saw at least three letter boxes that were either leaning dangerously or half-submerged in the muddy ground.
There were precious few remnants of humanity left. They passed two cars, one off the side of the road, one parked in the middle of the street with its doors open. Dorran slowed the car as they eased around the obstacle, but they didn’t stop for either vehicle.
Then Clare caught a flash of green up ahead and tapped her hand on the dash. “There! Stop!”
Dorran pressed on the brake as they neared. The letter box was shaped like a house, with a brass knob to open the little door below its peaked roof. The whole shape had been painted a bright green. It was exactly the kind of thing Marnie would have liked.
“Well done, Clare,” Dorran murmured and turned into the driveway.
Their progress slowed. The dirt track was a mess of half-dried mud. Twice, the tyres began to spin, and Clare had to mentally brace herself for the idea of pushing their way out before the car got itself free.
The house came into view ahead. Like Marnie’s, the small building was situated near several sheds. She nodded to Dorran, and he turned off the driveway to coast over the waterlogged grass. They gave the house and its buildings a wide berth. Along the weatherboard side, Clare saw what she thought were the remains of hydrangeas. Marnie’s cuttings.
Past the house was a hobby orchard and a pond. They were harder to navigate around. The sound of rushing water became clearer the farther into the property they drove. Willows cropped out of the ground; some looked half a century old. Clare’s hatchback hadn’t been designed for off-road driving, and it tilted horribly as it struggled over the root-pocked ground. Dorran’s face was tight with concentration. Clare gripped the sides of her seat, squeezing the nearly dried fabric.
Then, abruptly, they were at the river. Willows surrounded them. Their leaves were gone, and the draping branches created stark lines against the mist. Through them, the overflowing river frothed against its banks. She couldn’t see a bridge.
“Stay here; I’ll search,” Dorran said.
Clare felt uneasy about leaving their shelter. As long as they were in the car, they had a layer of metal protecting them from anything outside, and no matter how claustrophobic it made her feel, it was still better than the alternative. They weren’t exactly in the forest, but the trees were still grouped closely together and could very easily be hiding hollows.
But they were stuck until they could find the bridge. And that would be faster on foot.
“I’m coming.” She opened her door before Dorran could object. Cold air wound against her. She didn’t think it was her imagination anymore; the world was growing colder again. She prayed the snow would hold off for at least another day.
The rushing water was louder than it had seemed inside the car. Clare drew in lungfuls of crisp air and held her hand up to block the sun as she squinted down the stream’s length. It twisted out of sight in both directions. Clare moved close to the water’s edge and, crouching on a rock, dipped her hands into the stream. The water was achingly cold, but she had felt grimy all morning. She splashed water over her face and arms, and as she shook off droplets, she thought she could glimpse something made of stone to her left, half hidden behind the river’s bend and the trees. She signalled to catch Dorran’s attention and began following the riverbank.
As she stepped around the bend, she found herself facing Peterson’s handmade bridge. The banks were steep and narrow at that point, and the bridge was high enough to poke above the water. Just barely. Liquid ran over its lowest points, where the stones connected with the ground, but the bridge’s middle arched up at a gentle angle to put it above the water.
“Ah,” Dorran said as he caught up to her.
Clare rubbed at the back of her neck as disappointment turned her stomach sour. The bridge had been built by farmers, not engineers, and it showed. It had been made high enough to stand above the badly engorged river, but it hadn’t survived the water’s barrage. A deep hole had been gouged in the right-hand side where the stonework had crumbled.
“We could still walk over,” Clare said. She dropped her hands, feeling useless. “But then we’d have no car…”
The bridge had initially been wide enough for Clare’s hatchback to squeeze over. Now, less than two feet of it remained at the damaged section. The wooden support beams were visible, poking up from the water and showing where massive slabs of stone had once belonged.