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"Ann."
You turn your head to see Sue Ellen standing just left of the patio door, holding the curtain back just enough to see out.
"Someone's out there."
You don't bother to look for yourself. It seems like there's someone out there every night these days; the only question is whether it's a scared kid heading for the border or a government thug looking for scared kids to round up.
You shouldn't, but you keep the shotgun loaded now.
"Be careful," Sue Ellen says as you reach for the door. You stop long enough to smile at her -- or try, anyway. The motions don't feel right. It probably looks like a grimace.
"Always am."
You slip out into the night and don't tell her to lock the door. It's only glass. If whoever the hell is out here gets by you, it won't stop them. That's the thing that terrifies you the most, that wakes you up sweating and short of breath. There are a half dozen strangers sleeping in your house, counting on you to protect them from boyfriends, husbands, soldiers -- anyone who will drag them back to the lives they had, or haul them off to somewhere worse. The rehabilitation centers scare you more than Florence ADMAX, maybe because you know you'll never go. You'll be dead before anyone gets inside; you made that promise the day Southfork became a stop on the Underground.
"This is private property," you say, firm and loud. You can't see a damn thing, but you hear movement, and you look in that direction. "I'm askin' you nice to come out real slow where I can see you, but I'm only askin' once."
There's a laugh, and the bushes rustle, and you know that sound, but you don't dare to hope. Then he says it: "Annie, honey, don't shoot."
"Bobby?"
Your heart feels ready to beat out of your chest and there are tears in your eyes. You can't see when he steps through the bushes, so you step back, away, wanting to believe it, but still not quite there. It's been two months since Bobby left for Austin, two months since the riots broke out. Two months you thought he was dead -- maybe it is him, you think, and maybe you should shoot him anyway.
"Sue Ellen," you yell, hoping she can hear you inside. "Sue Ellen, turn on the light."
The sudden brightness is blinding, and you flinch, squeezing your eyes shut against the light. It's worth it, though, because now you can see him, there, alive, just on the other side of the pool.
You laugh. You laugh so hard the tears spill over, so hard you don't see him walk over, just feel his arms slip around you. You clutch at his shirtfront, gathering flannel in your fist, and the first thing you should do is tell him you love him, you hate him, you missed him, but again you yell for Sue Ellen -- "Sue Ellen! Sue Ellen, it's Bobby. Bobby's home, he's alive!" -- because she's the one who's been holding you every night for two months, and Bobby's alive, but you need her.
You hear the door slide open, hear her footsteps on the brick, halting, hesitant, then silent. "Bobby," she says, and you know exactly why her voice sounds like that, exactly why she stands there just a second too long before you hear the tap of her heels on concrete as she rushes over to you. She rests her hand on your back and kisses Bobby's cheek, and you sob when she kisses yours, too, because you love your husband, and you have never been so happy and so heartbroken before.