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.
