In the morning we climb out of bed and remove our nightgown that hangs to the floor and droops like a sack at our middle. Quickly we change, not wanting Marcum to see. Slipping a clean dress over our shoulders, we smooth the fabric between fingers, tugging material over our kneecaps, ensuring our wicked places are well hidden.

We hear Marcum downstairs, his heavy shoes scuffing hardwood. Every morning he paces back and forth. It's as if he doesn't know what else to do. We imagine his strong hands, his long beard, his musky odour soaking the room.

Before the mirror, we visualize coiling our hair, stretching it back the way Marcum prefers, fastening it tightly with the devices he provides. Our face looks taut, as if every line, every wrinkle is ironed out. We stroke our scalp, caressing the hair we no longer have. The coarse stubble burns our fingers. The sensation evokes memory of our sins, of Marcum on top of us, razor in hand. We open our mouth, inspect our teeth, and then we mount the kerchief upon our head. Marcum says wearing the kerchief demonstrates piety. Righteous women wear the kerchief.

We think the kerchief makes us pretty.

Walking downstairs, we place our feet carefully on the log steps and clutch the railing. The stairs are steep and slippery, and we do not wish to fall, as others have.

Moving to the kitchen, we walk softly, the way we have learned to walk. Folding back a throw rug, we open the trapdoor at our feet and climb down a ladder into the basement. It is cool, dark and damp, and smells of rot. We keep our food stores here, where it is dark and rotten smelling. We gather eggs, onions, potatoes, carry them upstairs, set them on the counter. We glance over our shoulder and think we see Marcum pacing, reading aloud from scripture. His voice reminds us of thunder, of dogs cowering in cramped spaces. We miss the dogs.

Looking outside, we see frost in the grass. We feel autumn in our bones, winter skulking in the shadows behind bare trees. Stepping through the door, we meet the cold air, feel the waning heat of the sun on our face. Wrinkles bunch at our cheeks as we squint. We're not sure if we feel old, weathered maybe.

Outside, our world is transformed, a layer of frost blanketing everything. We walk through the garden, grass crunching under foot. Our best plants hang limply, their leaves blackened and curled. Frost moults from their shriveled stalks like feathers drifting to the ground.

Our killing frost has come.

At the woodshed, we set firewood upright on the chopping block and pick up our favourite axe. The handle fits snugly in our palms, and as we throw it back, the head rattles loosely, threatening to fly off. With a noise like thighbones snapping in half, the wood splits in two. We wrestle the blade from the block and repeat until we have a solid pile.

In the kitchen, firewood spills from our arms in front of the stove. We stack it neatly, as we have been taught. After igniting the firebox, we boil water, fry eggs and potatoes, sprinkle with chopped onions. Marcum needs a respectable breakfast.

We sit wordlessly in our chair, ever conscious of our posture, our hands folded at our lap. Despite our grumbling stomach, we do not raise a fork until Marcum is seated.

After breakfast we scrape dried eggs from the plates into a slop bucket, place the dishes in the sink, and head outside to tend to our chickens, pigs, and milk cow.

Marcum's truck rests in the grass beside the barn. Its colour is rust-red, and the windshield has cracks splintering across it like shimmering veins. Inside, the torn vinyl seat absorbs the sunshine, and we feel the heat of it through our dress, like the nights Marcum presses himself against us.

We wipe a rag across the dashboard, stripping away the dust, polishing the shiny parts the way Marcum expects.

Three pedals lie at our feet. Our toes brush against them. We do not understand in what order they must be depressed. Marcum says a dutiful wife need not know such things. Town, he says, is no place for us. Whores drive convertibles, allow their hair to cascade in the breeze.

Our fingers stroke the key in the ignition.

We jump out of the truck, catching our dress on a splinter of metal. It tears a slit over our calf. We run back to the house for a needle and thread, throwing glances over our shoulder. Marcum knows when our thoughts are impure.

We collect our sewing things and set ourselves at the table. A strange noise outside startles us. An unfamiliar vehicle is emerging from between the trees, and it rolls to a stop in the front yard. A young man slides out of the car and examines the house, one hand cupping his eyes. He carries a thick black suitcase to the porch and raps on the door. Our fingers work feverishly, plunging the needle up and down. Then we stand, smooth our dress, and move to the entrance.

"H-hello?" we say, from behind the door.

"Good morning, ma'am," he says, reading from an index card in his palm. "I work for Glacier Springs Water Systems. We're a household name in water filtration, and we're testing drinking water in your area. To ensure your family's safety, please have your water tested today. This is a free service."

His tone is unnerving. "P-please leave, mister."

"But ma'am, wouldn't y' like t' know your water's safe to drink?"

We inch open the door a crack and study his face. He looks young, but how young we cannot decide. "Uh, maybe-yes, but-"

He shuffles uncomfortably. "Is the man of the house around?"

"No," we say, "but he'll be back soon."

We swing open the door. His eyes appear kind, his mouth gentle, like a woman's. A patch of light stubble swathes his chin and upper lip, but his cheeks look boyishly smooth and clean. A long scrap of hair hangs like a curtain over his eyes. His fingers fidget, tapping the case. He wears odd-looking shoes and he dresses in fabric unfamiliar to us. We wish to feel his sleeves.

"Alright," we say, "come in."

In the kitchen, he positions his case on the table, unclasps the locks and flips it open. "Just like a grade-school chemistry set, huh?" he says, removing little bottles and glass tubes.

Hesitantly we nod, unsure what he means. We offer tea or coffee. He thanks us, says no, and assembles a strange apparatus, sliding metal pieces together like a puzzle.

"I didn't know anyone lived this far out-I mean, I jus' followed the road to the end, and here y' are."

Using eyedroppers, he releases beads of liquid into a flask. The solution changes colour with each drop. He requests tap water. We reach for the jug we store in the cupboard and pour him a cup. As we near him, our hands quiver as if something radiates from his being, making us spasm. We spill water on his trousers and apologize more than we should.

"God speaks through Marcum," we say. The words shoot out of our mouth like the spray from Marcum's shotgun. The man at our table pauses and raises an eyebrow. His stare scours our soul. Why do we speak? Our breathing turns erratic. We move fingers beneath our kerchief, the stubble reminding us to watch our mouth. "It's true," we say, stumbling on. "Marcum says the Church is corrupt, that they ignore divine structure."

He scratches his chin. "Sorry, ma'am, I don't know too much 'bout religion. I'm not really a church goer." He pours solution into something like an ice cube tray. Each section has numbers and letters we don't understand.

"My name's Paul, by the way," he says, smiling, taking our hand.

Our fingers tingle.

"Marcum's your husband, ma'am?" he says.

We nod. We have never touched a non-believer's hand before.

"Boy, it's gettin' cold at night, huh?" he says. "That damn killin' frost came, huh? Got everythin' round here, I see."

"Yes, last night."

"Y' know, down at The Nugget—the place me and my friends hang out—we had ourselves a little bet goin' on what day that killin' frost was gonna hit. I put my money on the sixteenth, dang it. Pot was 'bout three hundred bucks, too."

We smile, suddenly conscious of our chest moving up and down.

"It must be peaceful way out here," he says. "Everybody's in everybody's business there in town. I guess I don't mind though."

We watch the movement of his lips, mouth opening and closing, like the ocean as Marcum once described it: the rhythmic undulations of waves rolling in, finding their way to land.

"This here factor I'm not sure of," he says, pointing to one of the compartments, "can't remember if this 'un's supposed to determine sodium or calcium. I'm still a touch new at this testing business. Y' mind if I use your phone? See if we can't get it straightened out?"

We feel strangely aware of the way our dress hangs, draping over our thighs, our knees. We are conscious of every stitch, every thread touching our skin. How astonishingly thin this fabric is that separates us from each other.

"Ma'am? The phone?"

We shake our head and smooth our dress. Marcum doesn't approve of telephones.

"Alright," he says. "We'll figure it out. Don't worry, ma'am."

While he works, we boil water and set a cup beside him. Occasionally, he glances at our feet. We hate our feet. They look like malformed stumps and we conceal them behind table legs.

"Okay," he says, standing. "Y' see how the water turns orange like that?"

We follow the line of his finger to the flask.

"Means y' got lots of iron in your water—lime too, judging by those flakes at the bottom." He holds the flask to the sunlight, examining it with one eye. The water looks like pulpy orange juice. "We can do somethin' 'bout this."

He lifts a flap from his suitcase, revealing a dark cavity. Inside, an odd contraption lies on its back, sunlight shimmering off its polished metal parts. It looks like a decanter with two spouts and strainers and a maze of clear tubes filled with pea-sized black stones. He pours the dirty water in one end. Coiling inside the machine, the orange water fades as it moves through, and at the other end, the clearest, cleanest water we've ever seen drips into a cup.

"Taste it," he says.

We almost choke at the freshness. He chuckles. We can't stop staring at his face. Exactly how many minutes pass before we realize our mouth is hanging open, we don't know.

"Y' like that?" he says.

We squeeze our earlobes and wonder how many women have touched his earlobes. Would he squeeze our earlobes if we asked?

"Marcum demands women submit to men, as men must submit to Christ." The words tumble out of our face. We wish we weren't so loud. Paul picks up his glass canisters, tubes, his bits and pieces and shuffles them into his case. We can't seem to breathe. Is something strangling us? "Don't go," we say.

"I think I better."

"Please," we say. Our head is bursting, as if wriggly bugs have burrowed into our skull.

"I just noticed," he says, snapping his case, "there's no faucet on your sink. You don't have runnin' water, do you?"

We shake our head.

"Nothin' I can do for y' then. All our products are made for pressure systems."

"Please don't go," we say.

He yanks his case off the table and takes long strides toward the door.

We ache to grab his hand, to whisper in his ear and soothe him. Everything is alright, we'd say. We love you and would never hurt you. But Marcum is in the basement, keeping sentry. The sound of him banging the walls and smashing things of glass drives a wedge in our heart. He knows what we're doing. Marcum knows our every whim.

"There is running water," we say. Heat leaks from our skin. "It comes into the basement through a hose."

He rattles the doorknob.

"Paul. Please."

"Alright," he says, exhaling a quick puff. "I'll have a look."

We light an oil lamp and lead him down the narrow ladder into the basement. The dirt floor is damp and cold, squishing between our toes like clay. So not to strike his head on the beams, Paul stoops, as Marcum must.

We raise the lamp to Paul's face. His nose is scrunched and he clutches his mouth. He is not accustomed to the stale, damp air. The light casts flickering shadows upon our food stores and scratchy-pawed little things scurry over our feet. We wish Paul would take our hand. We would not let go this time.

Creaking boards stab our ears and the walls seem to constrict. Fear swells in our chest. We fear so much. "Get out," we say, the words escaping before we can stop them. "No," we yell. "The hose is in there." We shine the lamp upon a mouldy door.

Paul takes the lamp and for a moment our fingers meet, and then he squeezes inside.

And then there is screaming. Paul's beautiful voice, but not. We plug our ears, digging our elbows into our ribs. The lamp smashes onto the dirt floor and flames burst upon us, lighting the room in eerie yellow tones. Paul's face twists into a shape we'd rather forget and he scrambles toward the stairs, clawing away whatever is in front of him.

We rock back and forth, reciting prayers, the ones Marcum made us commit to memory.

"Stay away from me," Paul shouts, his feet slipping on the rungs.

The lamp oil burns away and we are left in darkness to pray for forgiveness.

We climb to our bedroom and look out the window. Paul is gone, only a dust cloud hanging like fog over the road testifies that he was ever here. Below the floorboards, Marcum is pacing, orating from scripture. Fighting the urge to hide in the bathtub, we collapse on the bed and cover our face with a pillow. Marcum's voice is like a nail driving into our skull.

We stand before the mirror, hating our appearance. Folds of wrinkled skin hang from our neck, like Marcum's mother, the way she looked that day, sprawled at the bottom of the stairs. Do we look like that lifeless?

We drift outside and stumble upon our pumpkin patch. Green orbs rest in the dirt like grave markers, their fragile skins frozen and turned to mush. We pick one up and squeeze. Stringy guts ooze through our fingers, the sensation weakening our knees.

We twirl around our dead pumpkins and dizzy ourselves.

Everything once green is dead and black. The pumpkins at our feet remind us of newborn babies, the way their vines sprout from the earth like umbilical chords, sucking life from their mother—everywhere, everything sucks life from her. Every plant, tree and bush hangs off her, their roots digging into her skin, grabbing and holding. They never let go.

No. They never let go.

Among the pumpkins we know right from wrong, and we dance in the carnage of the killing frost, knowing we will not burn in hell.

And then they come, as we knew they would: strange vehicles with flashing lights, men with handsome uniforms. They swarm our yard, trampling grass under heavy shoes. They breach the house, wearing latex gloves and clutching strange implements and plastic bags.

They guide us to a pretty striped vehicle and push us into the back seat. As we pull away, we look back at our house. A man with a tangled beard paces at the kitchen window, an open book at his palm. Marcum? We fear leaving the only home we've ever known.

Pushcart nominee Judd Hampton lives among the pumpjacks and canola fields of northern Alberta. His stories have been published in Vestal Review, Paumanok Review, Night Train, NFG and Circle Magazine among others. His artwork appears online at Outsider Ink, Opium, Aileron and Literary Potpourri.