After bolting into the woods on almost silent wolf paws, Jael makes subtle appearances, in Ivy's line of sight.

A quivering bush here. A snapping branch there. Nothing definitive, but enough to draw her off.

She abruptly ends her call, bobbles her phone into her jacket pocket, benefiting from some devil's luck, apparently. It doesn't fall and go sliding off the roof she's standing on. She then takes off on her broomstick before I can find the nerve to take a breath.

It all happens so fast, and my eyesight isn't exactly ideal for this. All I know, she's out of my immediate view. I have no other way of knowing if it's "time" or not, and I count to ten, just to be sure.

While I'm at it, I consider my options. I could crawl through the grass with it shaking the whole time and endure the wear-and-tear on my hands and knees.

Should I sprint on two feet instead? It'll be more movement and exposure, but it'll take a lot less time with fewer side effects.

At that, I decide the time is now, and I'm out in the open field, running as fast as my tired, injured body and bare feet are capable.

It takes more energy than I have, but I manage to stay upright. I keep my focus on the old barn and my concentration on my pace, attempting to find a balance between speed, pain tolerance, and the damage I may incur.

I slow down once the barn is my shield. At a glance skyward, I detect only a flock of geese. Then I turn my gaze to the base of the structure and search for that bent nail I supposedly "can't miss."

Three-quarters of the way down, I realize that everything looks a little bent and out of place, and I start panicking, but a few steps later, the nail's there, and it is obvious.

I pull out the wood beam on my first honest try and crawl into the hole. Maneuvering myself into a flat position on my stomach, facing outward, I extend my arms and secure the long piece of wood in my grip.

Above my head and beside my fingers, I have only the leeway of a few inches, and I'm fighting gravity the whole time. The plank is like a seesaw in my hands, obviously not nailed in on the other end. I have to get both the nail in the hole and the other side of the wood into its former position—leaning on another beam that's jutting out a few inches off the ground.

After the second failed attempt, I peer into the sky through the cracks—a brightening gray, and luckily free of flying objects—and gather my wits and patience for another try.

Finally, the nail catches and slides in. I'm not sure the other end is in its proper place, though. Is it good enough for now? Jael will be fiddling with it again anyway, hopefully in a little while, and I leave it at that. It's not a good investment of time to keep fiddling with it, just to confirm, especially if there's a chance that I'm seen moving it.

Snaking around, heading in the opposite direction, the narrow crawl space is disgusting, to say the least. The rodents squeak and scatter. Worms and worse. The cobwebs show evidence of tearing in the center of this unofficial passageway, but on either side, they're elaborate, and for the most part, they're occupied by spiders that are almost as big as my palm.

This barn is falling apart in every way possible, and light is not as absent as I expected. Considering what I see and what could be seen, I can't say this is a good thing. The roof is in shambles. I can see spots of light through the floor gaps. The floorboards, directly over my head, aren't in much better shape. They're splintered, cracked, broken off, crooked in places, and completely missing in others.

In the peak of the day sunlight, I'm not sure this "hiding spot" would be as decent as Jael let on. It could be something he neglected to consider if he dropped off our stuff in the dark, which seems likely based on the timing of my rescue and how far we had to travel to get here.

"Camouflaged" as they may be, I see the backpacks well before I crash into them. The ground dips into a slight trench just beyond them, and I drag both bags into it with me. I have just enough room to sit up and light to see what's what.

The packs aren't spacious—just your typical bookbags. One is more of a satchel. They seem to be divided into "his" and "hers," the satchel being his.

A few shopping bags sit at my feet, and behind them, a black sleeping bag in its tightly contained, brand new state, something, that I know from experience, isn't reproducible. I don't know how we'll survive on this little or carry this much.

It's a problem for a later hour, and first things first, I set aside the damp robe. I hope I have no reason to keep it. It's too bulky and damp. And, well, I was supposed to die wearing it. All in all, it's too much to carry, and as cold as I may be for a few seconds, death seems to lose some of its hold on me as soon as it's off.

I locate socks and underwear, cheap canvas sneakers, a dark hooded sweatsuit, a simple winter hat, and a lightly lined windbreaker. I get them all on and zip up. And this empties out the backpack; it holds nothing warmer for me. There aren't even socks or underwear to spare. It seems Jay was on a budget and stuck to the absolute essentials.

I don't dig very far through his bag—it's more of the same, just the male equivalent. There's less, really. It holds some supplies, and he skipped the jacket and hat. And there's only one sleeping bag, which I unpack and unzip, using it as a blanket over my shoulders. I don't know how long I'll be here and I'm still damp and chilled to the bone. I'm also grumbling to myself about the future sleeping arrangements, assuming we ever get that luxury. He'll insist that I get the sleeping bag, and if I don't invite him in, I'll feel bad. At this point in November, we can expect temperatures to dip below freezing, especially at night.

Since the barn is still quiet, I crawl over to the remaining supplies. Into my now empty backpack, it goes without saying that I should load everything that didn't previously fit. With half a granola bar shoved in my mouth, I set aside the extra packaging and do just that.

Processed food, bottled water, which we'll have to refill at some point. It's enough to get us through the day if we use it sparingly. Unfortunately, I've gone all night without, so I guzzle down what I need to catch up a little.

In a side compartment, I find slots for the medical supplies—just gauze, tape, and ointment—and open the pack of lighters, and begin stashing them in various places.

Before this task is complete, the shadows over me seem to shift. I freeze and take cover, dragging as much of the trash into the trench with me as I'm capable on such short notice.

I recline to my back, the two bags and a whole lot of noisy paper and plastic between my legs, the open sleeping bag hopefully covering most of it.

The sleeping bag is black or close enough to it, but does it match the ground? Is the wood above me intact enough to cover it? I didn't notice any gaping holes in my immediate vicinity, but I didn't have a chance to confirm that.

Now, I can't see anything. I'm not even at liberty to move.

I should have been neater. I should have been quieter. I should have checked my surroundings and selected the best location for this whole hiding thing. Hide and seek used to be a game, and truth be told, I was never very good at it.

My second-guessing is interrupted by a decipherable noise. The rattling comes in spurts and there is a certain desperation to it. I've been there, done that, with that frustrating beam, and I didn't have the same risk of being discovered.

With a slight but decisive bang, the noise becomes a shuffling. Before it makes much progress, there's a boom overhead, and it repeats, like someone is beating a door or a lock to death.

I lift half of the sleeping bag. At the sight of Jael's human head, I grab him, tug him on top of me, and cringe at the sound of man falling on top of paper and plastic. And a woman, who can't comfortably bear his weight for long. Naked weight on top of that. On top of me, more precisely, and nothing about him is subtle.

It could be the stress or surprise or the alignment of things—though it's mismatched down below, his face falls right by my ear—and for a split second, he responds to all that, with his blood surging into unseemly places for the situation at hand.

I throw the corner of the sleeping bag over the both of us, and pull him flush against me, to get the crinkling over with just as the banging from aloft stops.

"I'm sorry. I—" Jael whispers, his lips to my ear, his voice as soft as it probably goes. What is he sorry for? While he shifts his hip away from my leg, he seems to lose his train of thought. "She wasn't where . . . it was a trick. She showed up out of nowhere!" he stammers and then blurts as the barn door creaks open above us.

"Hello?" Ivy calls out. She takes her first step inside, and the floorboard groans like it's about to break. "I know you're in here..."

She'd probably say that even if she didn't know. It's just what you say if there's even a small chance you can scare someone into submission or compel them to do something stupid.

Jael is still panting over my shoulder. I put a hand on his back to see if it'll help him calm down or at least inspire him to try.

The sky is brightening. Day is here. If he keeps this up, Ivy will surely see the swell of his shoulders through the floor cracks.

Ivy takes her second meticulous step inside. The floor groan is worse, and it seems to hinder her movement.

Jael's breathing settles into a steadier rhythm. And it's a good thing, too. At any second, we may have to hold our breaths. We're maybe five steps away from where the dirt and debris seem to be sprinkling down.

Something must catch Ivy's interest and it overcomes her sense of caution. Her tread is faster, but her footsteps weaken. They never quite disappear, but they clomp in another direction.

She tinkers around for a bit, almost beyond my ability to hear. It's hay or something along those lines. It's followed by the metallic shriek of a piece of equipment that hasn't moved in a while.

When she can't find us over there, her footsteps return. They've lost some of their urgency, but they continually grow louder, as if they're heading right for us.

Jael and I both jolt when a floorboard cracks and gives way. Ivy's foot must go through no more than a few yards away from us. She yelps and curses. From her tone, she may have hurt herself or ripped something. Heck, maybe she's upset that her pants got dirty.

Whatever the reason, it isn't good news. It may eventually inspire her to peek in the hole, or stick her whole head in, depending on how large it is. If that doesn't pan out, she may seek some other way to explore things down here.

It takes Ivy a moment to collect herself. She's mumbling inaudibly, although it's clear she's not pleased with how her day is turning out. Still, she's relentless and resumes her trek toward us.

She pauses over the bottom of our sleeping bag. The falling dirt brings this to my awareness. It has a more staccato beat and a higher pitch. Can she hear that, too?

I may be saying this a bit prematurely, but jeez, I think we're done for!

Ivy takes another step forward and stops again. She's right over us. And we can't even assume the floor will hold.

She can probably smell us. Sense us. Perhaps she can just plain see us, or the evidence I unwittingly left behind, even if she has just basic human eyes.

Why doesn't she say or do anything? What is she waiting for?