Freda Pov
I kept my hunting knife pressed against the inside wood of the door, my knuckles catching on a rough splinter.
"Don't open it all the way," Rex said from the corner of the stove. He kept his iron pipe leveled at the gap, his thumb tapping against the cold metal.
"I see the basket," I said.
I reached my left hand through the narrow opening and hooked my fingers into the rough wicker handle. The wood was heavy, and my right shoulder pulled tight as I dragged the basket across the threshold and onto the kitchen floorboards. I shoved the door shut with my boot heel and threw the bolt back into place.
"What is inside?" Mara asked. She came out of the pantry with an empty clay bowl, her lower lip trembling from the draft.
"Bread," I said.
