Inventory of a Quiet House

She had expected the furniture to be the hard part. It was the drawer of batteries, sorted by size, that undid her.

Her father had kept everything in a state of readiness. Fuses. Twine. A torch on every floor, tested monthly, though the power in that house had failed exactly twice in forty years.

She understood, finally, standing in the hallway with a bin bag in one hand, that this had not been about the power. It had been a man preparing, over and over, for a night when someone would need him and he would have the right thing ready.

She kept the torch. She kept the twine. She put the batteries back in the drawer, in order, and closed it.