Malorie and the children encounter a stranger on the river during their blindfolded escape, and the meeting tests whether apparent human company can be trusted in a world where sight itself may be fatal. The stranger promises safety, then admits he has seen one of the creatures and presses close to their boat. Malorie gets the children away without removing their blindfolds; the scene ends not in relief at finding another person, but in her sorrow for the man left behind.

An exposed route

The encounter takes place on the river, a route Malorie has never seen. She can hear birdsong above her and a fish splash, but cannot tell what the banks look like or whether houses line them. The river is both the way forward and an open, uninspectable space: the children’s blindfolds protect them from the creatures, while Malorie’s listening must tell her what is approaching.

When the Boy cries out, a bird of prey answers with a caw that echoes across the water. Soon a different sound carries over the river’s flow: an engine. Malorie recognizes it as another boat approaching. The prospect of meeting another human being does not reassure her. She is afraid, and when the engine draws level with their boat and does not pass, she tells the children to keep their blindfolds on.

The engine stops. Malorie hears the smell of gasoline in the air and footsteps crossing what must be the other boat’s deck. The stranger’s voice addresses her and says she can remove her blindfold because he is ordinary. His words arrive through the same channel by which Malorie has learned to detect danger, but sound alone cannot verify his claim. The danger is not simply that someone is near; it is that she cannot check who he is without risking the children’s lives.

The stranger’s persuasion

The man insists that there is nothing outside with them and that they are alone on the river. He presents the meeting as ordinary and harmless, encouraging Malorie to trust him. She does not accept his assurance at face value: after briefly answering him, she screams at the children not to remove their blindfolds.

His appeal is framed around the children. He asks whether Malorie would deny them the chance to see the day, and argues that they cannot live under her restrictions forever. The pressure turns the protection she has imposed into something he can describe as a deprivation. But for Malorie, the blindfolds are not an abstraction or a matter of preference; the unseen danger has made keeping them on a condition of survival.

The stranger’s tone shifts from coaxing to aggression. He says he ought to remove their blindfolds himself, then complains that Malorie’s fears merely keep her safe long enough to fear again. He claims he is the only one with the nerve to look outside. The claim makes his confidence unsettling rather than reassuring: he speaks as if direct sight proves freedom, while Malorie knows that seeing can bring madness.

Then he says he has seen one. That admission overturns the earlier assurance that nothing is out there. It does not explain when he saw the creature, how long ago it happened, or whether he has already been affected. Malorie cannot establish any of this from his voice. She must respond to the immediate threat while remaining uncertain about the stranger’s condition.

A struggle measured by sound

Malorie reaches for the Boy and pulls him back by his shirt. He strikes the steel bottom of the rowboat and yelps; the man laughs. The encounter has become physical in its consequences even though Malorie still cannot see her opponent. She tries to push the boat away from the bank, but the hull bangs against the stranger’s boat. In that moment, she understands that he has blocked their passage and that he may force their eyes open.

She shouts for him to leave them. Water splashes into the rowboat as she struggles, and the Girl shrieks. Malorie considers whether the man might still be reached by reason, wondering if the madness that follows seeing the creatures has taken hold slowly in him. She remembers what Tom said: a person already considered mad might not become any madder, while someone apparently sane might take longer to change. The memory offers no dependable test of the stranger; it only sharpens the uncertainty surrounding his claim.

At last Malorie plants a paddle hard against the earth and pushes. The rowboat moves, but then strikes the other boat and she shrieks. The man shouts at her to open her eyes. Malorie keeps trying to get them away, and the rowboat finally comes free. The sequence turns on a narrow practical victory: she does not need to understand the stranger or settle what he has seen in order to escape his boat, but she must keep the children blindfolded while she does it.

Escape and aftermath

Malorie continues paddling. After the rowboat has traveled another forty yards and the engine behind them is almost out of earshot, she reaches forward and touches the Boy’s shoulder. He tells her not to worry. She reaches back for the Girl’s hand and squeezes it, then lets go of both children to take up the paddles again. Their brief contact registers care and reassurance within an escape that cannot pause for comfort.

The children have held to Malorie’s instruction. She tells them they did well, trembling as she paddles deeper downriver. The engine and the man’s voice recede, but the encounter leaves no easy triumph. She remembers the stale, stuffy air of the house they left that morning, and she feels no hatred for the stranger—only sorrow. Her response preserves the distinction between the danger he posed and the person he may once have been, without pretending she could safely trust him.

The episode reverses the expected value of an encounter with another person. On an isolated river, a human voice might seem to promise help; here, the stranger’s assurances become an attempt to undo the precautions keeping the children alive. His declared willingness to look outside does not make him a guide or protector. The scene’s immediate outcome is escape, but the question of what seeing has done to him remains unanswered, and Malorie’s pity cannot substitute for certainty.