That night at Calder's, Ruth had written eleven at the top of a grocery envelope. She crossed off names as residents went around the corner to the café by the bus depot.
“The woman there said Ada can bring the cat,” she told Rae. “I asked twice. I don't want anybody arriving and finding out she meant the cat could stay outside.”
The house was warm. Too warm, Rae thought, though she didn't trust the feeling now. She'd been in four cold rooms that afternoon and had learned to expect the loss of heat before touching a tool.
The front door opened into a narrow hall, with the staircase to the left. Beyond it, past Ruth's office cupboard, lay the kitchen. Its side door led to the yard. A small service room opened off the far side of the kitchen, two shallow steps below the floor. Rae remembered carrying the control through there in spring and Ruth telling her to mind the last step. Somebody had painted the handrail yellow. The paint was worn to metal where most hands went.
She could hear Len working behind that doorway. Jory was in the hall with a cardboard box of residents' chargers and loose cables.
“Don't take that,” Ruth told him. “Tell people to take their own.”
“I thought it'd be quicker.”
“And tomorrow nobody knows whose is whose.”
Jory set the box down. Rae almost smiled. Ruth could manage a house without letting a contractor make every useful decision.
“I gave the office your installation page,” Rae said. “My name's on it.”
“I remember you. You came in the rain. Elias said he was doing me a favor.”
“He should have told you about the fires.”
“He should. You can help with these now.” Ruth held out the names. “The café wants to know who they're expecting. I'm keeping the envelope, so write them another list.”
Rae wrote at the kitchen table. There were cereal bowls in the sink, a half-peeled orange beside someone's keys. The ordinary mess made her think of her mother's kitchen that morning, coffee spilled because a voice had come out of a phone. Here there were eleven people, none of them waiting for a recording to tell them when to leave.
Ada came downstairs carrying a coat and a cat that did not wish to belong to an evacuation. Its back feet caught the coat lining. Rae held out the carrier while Ada gathered it in.
“He'll hide if he sees the van,” Ada said.
“The café's close. We aren't putting him in the van.”
“What about after?”
“Ruth will tell you where they're going.”
The cat tore loose, climbed Ada's shoulder, and stuck there. Rae had to bite the inside of her cheek not to laugh. Ada laughed first, a short furious sound.
“He weighs more when he wants to.”
Together they got him into the carrier with Ada's scarf. Rae took it down the steps while Ada followed with a bag of clothes. Outside, the air had gone clear and sharp after the rain. Light shone from the café awning. They could see the back-room door from the corner.
When Rae returned, Elias's van was at the curb.
He had left the shop before her. Her personal tools now lay in her own van. The emptied locker had looked smaller than she remembered. She'd sent him a message saying she would not take the emergency line tomorrow and would arrange separate work. He had not answered.
He stood in the kitchen with his coat off and glasses on. Len came up the service-room steps to speak to him. Rae couldn't hear the first part over Ruth's conversation with a resident.
“Dad,” she said.
He turned. “You got your things?”
“Yes.”
“You can leave them there while you think.”
“I've taken them.”
His gaze moved to her bag. Not the notebook now. The tool bag she'd bought herself when she got her license.
“I need to know where you want your last wages sent,” he said.
“The same account.”
He nodded. She could see him trying to find a practical question that would hold her in the room.
“Are you stopping the work?” she asked.
“I've come to check.”
“Then check.”
Ruth called Rae from the hall. Felix was standing on the stairs in work pants and a sleep shirt, carrying a bag by one strap.
“I need a note,” he said. “The bus isn't going to wait because somebody's looking at a heater.”
“For your employer?” Rae asked.
“The hospital laundry. I can't clock in with a story about a kitchen.”
“I can write what we're doing here.”
“Your firm's name on it?”
“My name. The fire office can give an incident confirmation.”
He considered the distinction, then nodded. Rae wrote. Ruth made him take the bag outside before he thought of another reason to stay.
At the door he felt his pockets. “Badge.”
Ruth looked at him. “Let me look while you wait out there.”
“It's upstairs.”
“We're still moving people. I'll fetch it with your coat. You get to the café.”
He almost argued. Ruth held his bag strap out to him. He took it.
Rae watched him leave. Eleven names on an envelope, and each name could become a reason that was more important to its owner than a contractor's warning.
She carried the copy to the café. Ada was already in the back room, holding the carrier against her knees. Felix was by the window, writing his supervisor a text. The owner had brought a kettle and a box of mismatched mugs.
Rae gave her the names. Ruth arrived behind her with two coats and a badge. Felix looked embarrassed when she handed it over.
“You could have let me get it.”
“I did get it,” Ruth said. “Have some tea.”
Rae stayed until everyone who'd arrived had a chair. When she went back to the house, the front rooms were quieter. Jory was alone in the hall.
“It's still on,” he said.
Rae looked toward the kitchen.
“I told Len I wasn't helping,” Jory added. “Elias said he could finish the last check himself.”
Her phone showed 11:05.