text: The four legs of the aged, wooden chair screeched across the tiled floor as I pushed back from the kitchen table. I lazily lifted myself from my seat using the palms of my hands on the worn-down arm rests. "Tea?" I asked, offering a shallow yet reassuring smile to the stranger sitting on the opposite end of the table. He was decades younger than me, possibly late twenties, yet the look of fear on his cleanly shaven face exuded the naivety of a child in trouble. The poor lad was shivering, just recently enduring the brunt of the thunderstorm that continued to rage outside. Clearly, he wasn't prepared for any such rain, his gray pullover sweatshirt drenched all the way through to his skin, black hair painted to his forehead and sides of his face. His pale hands were as pruney as mine, yet mine were from age and not water. He was soaked to the bone. Didn’t take much to soak him though, his slender frame and lanky extremities were comical compared to my rather rotund build. I needn’t impress anyone and decades worth of heavy stouts decorated me heavy. "Umm, no...no," he responded, rubbing his hands feverishly together before cupping them in front of his mouth. After a pause, he spoke again. "Thank you, though." "A warm mug and even warmer liquid serve a better purpose than your breath," I insisted. "Are you sure?" The boy trembled and although his body language insisted being persistent in his initial answer, he wound up nodding. "Good choice. I'll grab you a cup." I walked toward the stove where my tea kettle sat, hearing the agitated water boiling from within. I knew it was just the right temperature for tea, but I still waited for the hiss before pulling it from the fluorescent orange coils. The kettle shrieked, my ears unprepared for the piercing screech despite the anticipation. I pulled it from the stove, the whistle settling down enough for me to hear the water bubbling inside. I placed it down gently on the blue-clothed placeholder my wife had knitted, then opened the cupboard above the sink. I paused for a moment, staring at the floral-patterned mugs. A fleeting thought of my wife passed. It was odd for her not to be home yet. I begged my mind not to run rampant, refocusing it on hosting. I looked over my shoulder toward the stranger, his eyes pinballing between myself and the front door in the room adjacent to us. I quickly looked back toward the cupboard as his eyes met mine. I hoped he didn't perceive my gaze as judging, but his demeanor began to worry me. I grabbed the box of tea and three cups, and brought them toward the table. "Are...are you expecting someone else?" The boy asked timidly, shifting uncomfortably toward the edge of his seat. “I expect my wife home at any moment,” I answered unconvincingly. I sat back down across from him and pulled my chair in. “I hope you like chamomile, we seem to be running low on our tea supplies.” I chuckled but he remained disinterested, staying on high alert. “Chamomile sounds fine,” he responded. His gaze was glued to the third mug, one in which I set at the third empty seat with a tea bag hanging over the side. “You said she’s coming home soon?” “In due time, I’d like to believe.” I started pouring the hot liquid into his cup, the smoky sweet aroma filling the air. It beckoned sleep, but I wasn’t ready. “I’d imagine you’d like to steep yourself, yes?” I asked, handing him the cup. He seemed hesitant to grab it at first, for some odd reason, but the second his damp hands gripped themselves around the heated ceramic, he showed the first signs of comfort since arriving at my doorstep. His forehead relaxed, the wrinkles dissipating like smoothing the comforter of a freshly made bed. His shoulders rolled back, and he melted in his chair as he let the steam engulf his nose. The rain continued pelting the asphalt roof of my one-floor house; a clash of thunder mixed in to add to the dreariness of the often occurring New England Winter storms. We sat in silence as we continued drinking our tea. Every so often, I’d run my hand over the spout of the kettle to sense the temperature from within. I needed it to be ready for her once she got home. “I’m John, by the way,” I announced. “And you? I think it’s a better time than ever to introduce ourselves, don’t you think?” “I suppose,” the stranger answered timidly, then took the last sip of his tea. “I...I’m Harry.” There was still a bit of a shutter to his voice, an uneasiness about him that I was still trying to make sense of. I had my suspicions, but I wasn’t one to pry much. I figured the less I talked, the more he’d be willing; I was the gracious host. As anticipated, he broke the silence after allowing me to finish my tea. “May I use your phone?” He pointed toward the beige, corded antique that was mounted on the wall behind me. “It’s of no use,” I laughed. “That thing hasn’t worked in years. Never had personal calls, I’ll tell you that, only pesky telemarketers. I much enjoy the silence from it.” Harry’s eyes narrowed and brows furrowed in displeasure. “Then a cellphone?” “Those are about as useless as my landline in these parts.” “But do you have one? Can I at least try?” I shrugged my shoulders. “Even if one worked, I don’t have one.” “Well, is there something you could do to help me? A car, something?” He began to rise in his chair, seemingly infuriated, but quickly sat back and settled himself. It was as almost if he had realized he lost his manners - I was certainly glad he found them. “No,” I urged, gripping the arm rest of my chair until my knuckles turned white. “I’ve already offered you all that I have. The wife has the car, we can discuss once she’s back. You can wait out the storm and be on your way.” “Sor...sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.” He was cautious with his tone. “I just, well...” “I’m concerned that you’re even here, boy.” At that point, I grabbed the kettle and poured the hot water into the mug I left out for my wife. I began steeping the bag, my eyes locked onto Harry’s stare. “These woods are deep. I’m rightfully concerned for those who find themselves here. You ain’t fleeing from the Canadian border are you? You a criminal?” “No, no, no, no,” he answered anxiously. “Do I look like one?” He held his arms out to his side and gazed at his body. It appeared he wanted to play into his rather unthreatening build to make his case. “I’m part of a hiking group. We set a check point a few miles back, I assume a few miles. I ventured off before the storm hit and, well, lost my way.” My eyes narrowed as I focused on his rapidly blinking ones. I was tempted to continue toying with the boy but my better half prevailed. He seemed to be telling the truth. “Oh relax, I didn’t peg you f...” The phone rang, the sudden surprise swallowing my words. “I...I thought that didn’t work?!” He yelped. He was panicking, shifting left to right in his seat, slightly flinching with every ring. The phone finally settled. The two of us remained silent in our seat, anticipating our next move. The tension grew strong to the point where I felt the weight settle deep in my chest. Harry sprung up from his seat and without hesitation, I reached across and forced him back down by the shoulders. “Sit!” I screamed, reaching into the depths of my belly to incite a commanding tone. I went to yell again but decided against it. I began rubbing the tips of my index finger and thumb together to calm myself. I felt as though I needed to start explaining myself. I wasn’t the one to be afraid of but sometimes my anger bested me. Harry was as still as a statue, the color drained from his face. “Cou...could I... I mean... I,” he began saying, most likely attempting to bargain for his departure. It didn’t surprise me that the words could not escape his mouth. The muscles of his neck were tense, almost strangling him. He was skinny enough for me to notice the rapid pulsation of his carotid just under his chin. “Could you leave?” I suggested soothingly. He attempted to speak again but words failed him. He frantically nodded instead, a sliver of hope gracing his face. “In this storm? In this cold? Doubt you make it a mile.” I took in a deep breath, my belly expanding into the rounded edge of the table, and then released a dragged out sigh. “She’s too persistent.” I pushed my glasses up over my scraggy, grey hair atop my head and began rubbing my face. Harry’s chair crashed to the tiled floor and his clunky footsteps receded toward the living room door. He yelped as he must’ve realized the bolted lock at the top of the door. I reset my glasses and stood slowly from the table. Harry had picked up one of my wife’s plug-in candlesticks from the windowsill and waved it in front of him like a sword. “Stay back!” He yelled. “Let me go!” His back was pressed against the door, feverishly jiggling the handle to try and loosen it. I knew it wasn’t budging. “The other hikers, they’ll come looking for me!” “Please, Harry, just relax,” I said reassuringly. “I’m not gonna hurt you. Why don’t you just sit back down and we can talk.” “She? You said She!” He began to whimper, tears welling up in his eyes. “A woman... she’s trying to kill me!” He let out a deep sob, knees crashing to the hardwood floor. “She’s hunting me like...like a boar!” I stood over Harry, offering my hand to lift him off the ground. My shadow consumed him and he appeared no more than a helpless child just beaten in the school yard. He didn’t reach to take my hand, he had no intention. “I’m sorry she’s doing this. I thought those days were behind her.” I put my hands on my hips and shook my head. I stared at the pictures she hung on our soft green, living room walls. They were her most recent paintings: one’s of seashore landscapes, shells, and crashing waves. They were direct representations of how peaceful she could be, a side that no one saw but myself. I tried hanging onto those feelings but my slivering moment of peace turned to anger. We distanced ourselves from society for this purpose - she couldn’t control herself. “You should have never ventured up to these parts!” I hollered, ripping Harry up from the shoulder of his sweatshirt. I tossed him on our linen sofa with ease. He weighed as much as he looked. If he minded his own and stayed wherever he came from, she wouldn’t have had to do it. This was his fault. I moved angrily toward him. He pursed his lips and grunted as he lunged from the sofa, fist flying at my face. He missed. I barely needed to step aside as he stumbled to the floor, yelping as his knees and elbows took the brunt of the fall. He was a blubbering idiot, face buried in his arms as he curled up at my feet. Harry craned his neck to look up. “Please, I’m begging. I...I...,” he began to plead, his words still hard to come by. Such a gangly runt, lying there with snot running down his face and eyes swollen like a puffer fish. It was almost if my wife didn’t want much of a challenge. I felt for Harry, I really did. In that moment, I contemplated letting him face the storm, but I had no doubt he’d fail. It came time for me to realize whether I should help this sad sack or give into her like I had all these years. “Did you get a good look at her?” I asked. “Did you?” “No, not really," He answered, then repeated to sob. Once he could catch his breath, he spoke again. “It was too dark to tell. When the lightning flashed, all I could see was long hair, not sure of the color. Her clothes were drenched under her raincoat. I think it was yellow. She was a bit, well, bigger. Sorry. She kept calling me...” He paused and let out a whimper. “She kept calling me Dearie.” “Get up,” I urged impatiently. I noted the frustration in my tone, quickly trying to undermine it with an apology. No doubt it was my wife, Dearie was a term of endearment for her. “I’m sorry, boy. I let my frustration out on you. It ain’t about you. Will you take my hand now?” Harry wiped his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You can go to hell,” he muttered, rising to his feet under his own strength. “Is it your wife? You’re expecting her, no?” He struggled to keep eye contact with me, his neck lazily supporting the head. “I’ll take my chances with the storm. You’re gonna end me right here, I know it.” I huffed and walked toward the front door. From the pocket of my jean overalls, I pulled out a key, unlocking the bolt at the top. The wind forced the door open quicker than I anticipated, freeing my grip and slamming against the stopper. The storm howled outside, freezing rain spraying in onto my bare forearms, sending chills down my spine. Lightning lit up the sky, the silhouettes of the surrounding oaks hauntingly creeping over the house. Thunder crashed only moments after the strike; the storm was just above us. “Here’s your chance, boy,” I said, gesturing toward the woods. “You got a good fifteen or so miles to, well, anywhere that can help you. Maybe get back to your hiking checkpoint? Follow the dirt road, it’ll get you somewhere.” Harry was confused, or so it seemed. I could almost feel his eagerness to sprint out the door but he didn’t move. “Please tell me, is it your wife?” He gulped. “Yes,” I answered reluctantly. “Now, go on.” I expected some sort of retort but he chose silence instead. Cautiously, he walked toward me and the door. He began to say something but car lights appeared through the dense forest and flooded the house. I slammed the door shut. “There, right there, get in!” I pointed toward the closet on the other side of the living room. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get in. Now!” Harry rushed toward the door and opened it. As he looked in, his body stiffened, hand beginning to tremble on the knob. I leaned a bit to get a better look. On the floor sat a drenched blonde wig, crumpled clothes piled above the puddle they formed. Hanging on the back of the door was a yellow raincoat, water dripping steadily from the tail of it to the ground. It fit Harry’s description from earlier but the wig, the placement of the soaked clothes and how they got there didn’t add up. My mind became foggy, my memory from earlier that day beginning to escape me. “Wha...What is this?” He faced me, fists clenched and ready to charge. “Where is she?!” He backed up without taking his eyes off me, then peered down the hallway that separated the kitchen and the living room. It felt as though the wind from the storm pushed me back toward the wall, but no wind was present. I was suddenly confused. I forgot why I was standing at the door. Flashes of running through the woods flooded my mind. The smell of wet leaves, the crunching of twigs beneath my boots felt present. My prey sat in front of me, how unexpected. The white light that luminated the living room became a flashing blue and red. A smile overtook his face, a frown overtaking mine. I looked out the window at the cop cars filling up the front yard, then turned back toward the one I hunted. There was time before they entered. “Why are you leaving so soon, Dearie?” I asked, heightening the pitch of my voice. I faintly smiled as I stared upon the kitchen table, a cup laid out by my husband. “Was it the tea?”