Martha opened the drawer beside the stove, looking for a corkscrew.
“Let us check the bedroom,” she said.
By six o’clock, the light outside had faded to a dull gray, and the low hum of our Buick heater had long since died down. We began unpacking our wool sweaters into the dark oak dresser in the corner of the master bedroom.
The room was completely quiet, except for the occasional rattle of dry leaves against the glass outside. I reached into my suitcase for my blue cardigan, but Martha stopped with her hands full of cotton shirts.
“Roger,” she said, pointing toward the ceiling above our bed.
A small, circular smoke detector sat directly above the headboard, its white plastic cover slightly yellowed. A tiny green light on the rim of the casing blinked once, then twice, with a steady, rhythmic pulse.
“The battery must be running low,” I said, rubbing my wrist again.
“That is not a normal interval,” she said, keeping her voice level.
I watched the green light flash every five seconds, casting a faint glare onto the dark wood of the headboard.
“I will look for a ladder in the hall closet,” I said.
There was nothing in the closet but three wire hangers and a plastic broom. I walked back into the bedroom and grabbed the heavy wooden dining chair from the corner.
The legs scraped loudly against the oak floorboards as I dragged it under the light fixture.
“Be careful with your back, Roger,” Martha said, her hand reaching out to steady the frame of the chair.
I stepped onto the needlepoint seat, my leather soles slipping slightly on the polished wood. As I reached up toward the ceiling, I noticed one of the screws on the plastic casing was loose, hanging by a thread of gray metal.
