An older man with gray hair and a thick mustache stood there, holding a shotgun.

“Inside,” Jack Vance muttered, grabbing my shoulder and pulling me into the warm hallway.

He locked the deadbolt and threw three heavy slide bolts into place.

The air smelled of stale coffee, tobacco, and wet wool.

“You look just like your mother,” he said, lowering the gun.

He led me into a small kitchen lit by a single overhead bulb.

I sank onto a vinyl chair, my body finally giving out.

“They’re freezing,” I said, peeling back the wet blanket to show him the twins.

Vance looked down at them, his eyes dark and tired.

He fetched a couple of dry towels from a closet and handed them to me.

“Dry them off,” he said. “I’ll put some milk on the stove.”

I wrapped the babies in the warm towels, checking their fingers and toes.

They were quiet now, exhausted by the flight.

Vance set a small pot of milk on the burner and turned the dial.

“How did you know my mother?” I asked, my voice trembling.