He opened the door to the kitchen, hand-hunted for the hanging light. They were not there—nor were they on the small back porch. The panic passed critical mass, exploded out of control. He lurched back into the combination living room, bed room. He looked under all of the beds and into the small closet—everywhere that two children might conceal themselves.
Outside the rain had increased. He peered out into the lightning night. A truck horn blew ominously far down the road.
The road?
He slogged through the mud, instantly soaking as soon as he was out of shelter, not knowing or caring. Through the front yard, out to the road. He could see the lights of the truck coming from far away, two tiny points in the darkness. But no twins.
He waited helplessly while the truck rushed past, its headlights cutting holes in the darkness—fearing those lights would outline something that he had not seen. But there was nothing.
For another eternity he hunted the muddy fields, the small barn and outbuildings. The clutch of fear made him shout their names, though he knew they could not hear.
And then, suddenly, all fear was gone—like a summer squall near the sea, with the sun close behind. It was as if their hands had reached out and touched him and brought the strange feeling again.
"They are in the house," he said aloud and knew he was right.
He took time to discard muddy shoes on the porch before he opened the door. And they were there—by the mother's bed, hands clasped over hers.
He felt a tiny chill. Their eyes were watching the door as he opened it, their faces set to receive some stimuli—already set—as if they had known he was coming.