Gretta stopped at the top of the stairs, panting. “And—twenty!” she said, as Hans came up the stairs.

“You could use the gym for that,” he said.

“I’ve been training in there for three months,” she said. “I felt like a change of scenery.” She went into the bathroom, turned the shower on, and undressed. There was a tap at the door, and Hans called out to her. “I’m doing a load of laundry. Do you want me to do your workout clothes?”

“Yes, thanks,” she said loudly, and wrapped a towel around herself and opened the door. He stepped inside. “Right. Make it quick,” she said.

“I finally got a look at how the Hands leave the house. There’s a small airlock at the back of the scullery. Too small for either of us, though.”

“Scheisse,” she said. “I’m out of ideas. The windows are unbreakable, at least with anything we’ve got on hand. The doors are on a magna-lock. Unless we find a way to prize the walls apart with a butter knife we’re going to be here until our hair turns grey.” She handed him the bundle of dirty clothes.

After she’d showered, Gretta went downstairs to the kitchen. Spread across the table was the harvest the Hands had gathered for today. There was a pile of fern shoots, some bracken roots, and a bowl of acorns. Gretta found a knife in the kitchen drawer, sat down at the table and began removing the acorn shells. The Hands were inclined to just toss everything into the material processor, whether humans would consider it edible or not, but the twins had found after some experimentation that they got a better tasting grade of slush out of the food printer if they did some preparation on the material, and ran separate batches for different items.

There was a bump as the scullery door opened, and one of the hands came in carrying a dead rabbit. Gretta’s mouth watered, thinking of roasted meat.

“Wait a minute,” she said as the Hand advanced on the processor. “At least let me skin it first!” The Hand ignored her and tossed the whole rabbit in. The processor made a series of grinding noises and emitted a nasty stench. The Hand collected the resulting container of red slurry, and fed it into the food printer. Gretta made a face at it and fed the hulled acorns through another port, setting the machine to grind them. She filled a bowl with the ground up acorns, added water, and left it on the counter to soak and remove some of the tannins.

Hans was in the lounge, studying a chess board.

“Queen to f3,” Grandmother said through a speaker in the corner, and he moved her piece for her. Gretta studied the small selection of books for the umpteenth time. Like much of the house, the room had only been partially furnished. There were two entire walls lined with bookcases, but only two shelves were full. She’d read half of the books already. A thin guide to wildflowers caught her eye. She flicked through the pages. Odd. The title page was filled with tiny handwriting. She tucked it under her arm and went upstairs to the bedroom she shared with Hans, settled herself on her bed and began to read.

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December 12, 2128

In the beginning, we were five. It was supposed to be one last camping trip together before we finished university. Somehow, we took a wrong turn crossing the Divide and got hopelessly lost in the fog. We were wet and cold and so grateful when the spider droid found us, and we followed it to shelter. But once we were inside the house, Grandmother wouldn’t let us leave. Marla was the first to die. I think she had meningitis. We found Dietrich hanging in the gym, one morning at the end of the first year.

Wolfgang, Lars and I have been here five years now. We ate the last of the stored food three months ago. For a while, the Hands brought in material for the food processor, but this winter there has been one terrible blizzard after another. The Hands are too small to clear the snow drifts around the house. We hadn’t eaten for over a week, then one morning Wolfgang and I woke and Lars was gone. The house said she’d found some food. May God forgive us, we didn’t ask questions. We ate what she gave us. We knew, though.

I can’t sleep anymore. They’ll come for one of us tonight. I don’t want to die but I don’t want to live like this anymore either.

They’re coming.

Please, remember us.

Marla Schwarz, Dettelbach, 22.

Dietrich Schmidt, Dettlebach, 22.

Lars Svensson, Oslo, 26.

Marguerite Schwarz, Vienna, 26.

Wolfgang Lange, Berlin, 26.

The date on the note was nearly twenty years ago.

Gretta flicked through the book. There was no more handwriting. The Hand they’d named Dexter appeared in the doorway.

“Dinner is ready, don’t be late!” Grandmother announced cheerfully through the Hand’s speaker.

“Thank you, Grandmother,” Gretta said mechanically. She put down the book and followed the Hand down the stairs.

That night, as they were getting ready for bed, Gretta shut the door and nodded to Hans. She handed him the book and waited while he read it.

He let out a long breath. “That explains why the storeroom in the basement contains nothing but cans of salt and baking soda. Well, I guess we don’t have to worry about staying here until we get grey hairs now,” he said in a low voice. “I wonder which of us she’ll choose to turn into sausage meat first? We’ll know it’s time when the Hands start pinching us to see who is the plumpest.”

Gretta shuddered. “It’s certainly an incentive not to put on weight,” she agreed. “Mind you, we’re on tight rations now and it’s still summer, when there’s plenty of food in the forest.”

“I swear I’d tear this place apart with my bare hands, just for a pizza,” Hans said.

“Melted cheese!” Gretta groaned. “Oh God, stop it. We’ve got to get out of here before winter.”

“We’re only going to get one chance at this,” Hans said. “We need a plan.”