Chapter 13 – The Notebook's Weight
The morning came with clearer skies, sunlight glinting across dew-laden leaves. Alex woke early, his notebook already in his lap, the margins filling with quick sketches of pumps and pipe fittings. The water pump book he had brought back lay open beside him, its yellowed pages giving off a faint, dusty smell.
Every so often, he stopped writing and tapped the pencil against the page, as though weighing not just ideas, but choices. Knowledge was heavy in a way beans or tools weren't—it implied responsibility.
Upstairs, the sounds of movement were familiar: Robert shifting boards against the window frames, Margaret humming quietly while tending to jars on the counter. Domestic rhythms that steadied the house against the growing uncertainty outside.
"Alex," his father called from the back door. "Come take a look."
He stepped outside, the crisp air refreshing after the basement's stillness. Robert stood by the rain barrels, pointing at the patched seams Alex had repaired days ago. The barrels held steady, no leaks, but the water inside had grown cloudy. Algae traced thin green veils across the surface.
"Too long in the light," Robert said. "We'll need a better system if we're counting on these for dry months."
Alex nodded, flipping open his notebook. "I've been thinking the same. Maybe I can rig a filter. Gravel, sand, cloth. Not perfect, but safer."
Robert grunted approval. "You've got the book knowledge down. Test it small scale first."
Margaret appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. She held out a basket with dried beans spread across a cloth. "These should hold if we store them right. Enough for planting later." Her voice dipped slightly, eyes searching Alex's face. "What you found yesterday… it means others are near?"
Alex didn't answer right away. He thought of the footprints behind the farmhouse, the faint vehicle hum, the road that seemed too silent for comfort. "Yes," he said finally. "Others are moving. I don't know if they're desperate, cautious, or dangerous. But they're there."
The air grew heavier for a moment. His mother folded the cloth corners gently, as if the beans were something fragile.
That afternoon, Alex set up on the porch with scavenged buckets, a length of cut pipe, and scraps of cloth. He layered gravel, sand, and charcoal from the fire pit, building the crude filter from memory. Each step he recorded: measurements, notes, potential weaknesses. Water poured through slowly, emerging clearer than before, though it still needs to be boiled.
Robert watched with his arms crossed. "Not bad for a first pass. Document it. We might refine it later."
"I already am," Alex replied, sketching the design into his notebook. "If we scale it, we can tie it into the barrels."
The sun lowered, shadows stretching long across the fields. Alex took a break, shotgun propped nearby, eyes scanning the dirt road that ran past their property. For hours it remained empty, the silence broken only by wind brushing across the tall grass. But near dusk, movement caught his eye—fleeting, half-hidden.
A figure? Or just a trick of the light?
He stilled, breath shallow, heart thumping. Through narrowed eyes he thought he saw a flicker—a reflection, perhaps metal catching the last sunlight—before the shadows swallowed it. He raised his notebook, jotting quickly: Possible sighting. Roadside. Dusk. Maintain watch.
Dinner was subdued. Margaret ladled out stew, but the taste was muted by the weight of thought. Robert spoke little, his jaw set as though bracing for something unseen.
Later that night, Alex climbed to the small attic window. He sat in darkness, staring at the ribbon of dirt road. He thought of his exploration: the shed, the farmhouse, the vehicle marked by violence. He thought of the knowledge piling up in his notebook—useful, yes, but only if they lived long enough to use it.
In the distance, far beyond the trees, a faint glow pulsed once, then vanished. Not lightning. Not fireflies. Something else.
Alex whispered to himself, as though reminding the dark:"Knowledge. Caution. Survival."
He closed the notebook softly, but the weight of it felt heavier than ever.