The Bones Beneath My Skin

Chapter eight

THREE DAYS later, nothing had changed.

Well.

Maybe that wasn’t entirely true.

They existed here in his cabin, the three of them.

Nate would wake early, not able to sleep in no matter how hard he tried. His body had been trained to be up by five at the latest. He had no real reason to be up before the sun, but there he’d be, blinking slowly in the dark, the only light from the clock radio on the nightstand beside him, the numbers burning a dim green, switching from 5:01 to 5:02 even as he watched.

And he’d lie there, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the cabin settle quietly around him. He’d think the muddled thoughts of those still waking up: What do I have to do today and Where am I? and Oh, that’s right, that’s right, everything is weird and different. I’m in Oregon. I’m in a cabin in the woods with people I don’t know who are running from something they aren’t explaining—

Everything would be startlingly clear then.

ALEX WAS always up and in the kitchen before he was.

The second morning after Nate had arrived at the cabin, Alex hadn’t said anything as Nate had come into the kitchen. He’d been drinking coffee at the window, staring out at the sky as it began to lighten. Nate made his own cup of coffee, pulling the mug down from the cabinet, mixing in two spoonfuls of sugar. They stood there, not speaking until Art came out an hour later, blinking blearily.

The third morning, Alex had grunted something that could have been hello, but Nate was mid-yawn when it’d happened, so he missed what was said. He had muttered something in return and gone to the coffeepot.

His mug was already sitting on the counter next to the sugar bowl.

He paused. Then he shook his head and went about making his coffee.

The fourth morning, the mug had been ready and waiting for him, still steaming, sugar mixed in.

“Thanks,” he said.

Alex grunted in return.

ART WENT through the books quicker than Nate would have expected. She didn’t seem picky, not necessarily perusing until something caught her eye. Instead, she’d finish one, put it back on the shelf, humming to herself under her breath before picking the next book. There was no order to the books; his mother had said she was going to organize them one day, maybe by author or subject or something to give some sense of order. She’d never done it. The L’Amour books were always together, though. They’d been Nate’s, his mother not quite understanding his fascination with them. He was surprised she hadn’t gotten rid of them after they’d found him in the cabin.

It was just another thing he would never know the answer to.

ART AND Alex were outside again, skipping rocks on the lake, when Nate made a decision.

He could hear them through the open window. Art was laughing, and Alex was being Alex and saying as little as possible.

He went to their room.

His room, he reminded himself, because this was his cabin.

He ignored the tiny twinge of guilt.

The door was shut. For a moment, Nate wondered if it would be locked, which would be ridiculous, of course, because the bedroom doors didn’t have locks. His dad had said they didn’t need them, that nothing good ever happened behind a locked door.

And Nate, curious bastard that he was, tended to agree with that, much to his chagrin.

He stopped in front of the door, cocking his head. Listening.

He could hear Art.

They were still down by the lake.

He pushed the door open.

The room was sparsely furnished. There were the two twin beds separated by a small wooden chest. The beds were made immaculately, the matching green comforters pulled tight and folded underneath the mattress. Nate and Rick had shared this room when they’d come here for the summers, Nate always taking the bed closest to the window. Art would fit just fine. For Alex, on the other hand, the beds would be too small.

Nate didn’t let himself think about that much. That way lay danger.

There was an old dresser against the far wall near the small closet. It was the same one that’d been there when Nate was a kid. The large photograph on the wall was new, a framed picture of a lighthouse shot in black-and-white. The lamp on the chest between the beds was new too.

Other than that, there wasn’t anything else in the room.

Aside from two green duffel bags, one at the foot of each bed.

They were the same, a deep forest green with a silver zipper that ran down the middle. They looked military issued, something Nate had expected.

He went to the closest one first, at the foot of the bed nearest the door.

He unzipped it.

It was Alex’s.

Three pairs of jeans rolled up tightly. A few shirts. Undershirts. Socks. Boxers.

Nothing else.

Nate felt almost guilty.

Almost.

He zipped the bag back up.

The contents of the second bag were more… colorful.

It was all clothes belonging to a little girl.

A bag of scrunchies.

There was a side pocket filled with rocks of different shapes and sizes.

And nothing else.

It almost hurt to see. He didn’t know what he’d expected to find. Something, maybe. Something that could have given him any further clue as to what he was dealing with. Of where they had come from. Of who or what they were running from. Something.

Instead it was the barest of possessions.

IN THE hall bathroom, there were two toothbrushes lying side by side next to a half-empty tube of generic toothpaste.

In the shower was a bottle of bright pink shampoo with flowers on the label. A bar of green soap sat in the soap dish.

It was like they barely existed at all.

“WHAT ABOUT school?” he asked.

Alex stared at him. “School?”

“Was she—should she be in school?” He was floundering. But he had to push. He had to. The pink shampoo made him. It meant that Alex had gotten it for her. It was the type of shampoo a dad buys for his daughter when she visits after a divorce. Like he didn’t know what else to get and only got it because it looked girly.

But there was no other shampoo in the shower, and that meant he used it too.

He had to ask.

When Alex didn’t answer, he said.

“You’re taking her back to her parents.”

Alex said nothing.

“Where are they?”

“I told you,” Alex said tightly.

“I can’t—you need to stop. You’re not going to get the answers you want.”

Nate backed off.

For now.

THEY ATE all their meals together.

Art insisted on it.

“People need to eat together,” she told Nate the second night when he’d tried to take his meal to his room.

“You don’t have to be alone when others are near.”

He’d thought about arguing against it.

But she had big, big eyes and she knew how to use them.

It was unfair, really.

But he’d set his plate back on the table and pulled out the chair.

Alex said nothing.

But Nate noticed he didn’t take a bite of his own food until Nate did so first.

RUTH DIDN’T call back.

Nate checked.

He thought about driving down the mountain. Just to be sure.

He didn’t.

THE WEATHER held. The stretches of days were bright and sunny, though still cool. Sometimes Art would take her book out onto the dock and lie on her back, holding the book above her face, her oversized sunglasses blocking out the sun. She would flip through page after page.

Alex always followed her out.

He would stand at the edge of the dock, eyes scanning the tree line.

Nate could see the outline of the gun tucked into the back of his jeans.

“LET ME see,” Nate heard Art say as he came out of his room on the afternoon of the fifth day he’d been at the cabin. He’d just woken up from a nap he hadn’t meant to take, feeling particularly self-indulgent. He reminded himself he was on a vacation of sorts, though it wasn’t turning out like he’d expected.

“It’s fine,” Alex said.

Alex was sitting at the kitchen table. Art was standing next to his chair, her hands on her hips, glaring up at him. His beard was fuller now, almost looking a little wild. He’d need to trim it soon or it’d be out of control.

“I know it’s fine,” Art said.

“But it’s still good to check and make sure.”

“I already checked.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He arched an eyebrow at her.

She smiled sweetly at him. Then.

“Nate, would you please tell Alex to take off his shirt?”

Nate stumbled.

They both turned to look at him.

He ignored them, sure his face was bright red.

“See?” Art said.

“Even Nate thinks you should.”

“Leave me out of this,” Nate managed to say.

“Whatever you’re doing, I don’t want to know.”

“I need to make sure his side is doing better,” Art said.

“And he won’t let me check.”

“If he says he’s fine, then he’s fine.”

“Wow,” Art said, the glare turning to Nate.

“I didn’t know it’d be you who betrayed me. Now I know what Old Man Brannagan felt when his nephew turned him over to the sheriff. Real bad, hoss. I feel real bad.”

“You need to stop reading those books.”

She shrugged.

“I like them. Things make sense in them. Good guys are good guys. Villains are villains. The good guys always win.”

“They do,” Alex said quietly, and it was one of those things that meant more than he understood.

Art softened just a little.

“I know. But that still won’t get you out of being checked out. Come on, partner. Off with your shirt.”

“Why did you wait until right this moment to ask this?” Alex asked her, glancing at Nate for some reason.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Art said sweetly.

“Are you going to do it? Or are we going to have to do this the hard way?”

Nate didn’t want to know what that meant.

Alex sighed.

“Fine. But this is the last time.”

And he lifted his white undershirt over his head.

Nate should have looked away. He should have. It was the right thing to do.

He knew this.

But.

He looked. For strictly professional reasons. That was it. He only wanted to see how Alex was healing. It had absolutely nothing to do with the miles of skin and muscle and hair on his chest and stomach. At all. It wasn’t like that for him.

It wasn’t.

The bruising was almost gone. There was the barest hint of color against his skin, but that was it.

Even the scar had disappeared. Or the indent. Whatever it’d been.

Art looked pleased.

“Looks just fine. Nate? What do you think?”

“Yeah,” Nate said. “Yeah.”

Alex grumbled at the both of them and pulled his shirt back on.

“You’re getting scruffy,” she said, reaching up, the tips of her fingers disappearing into the hair on his chin.

“I can barely see your face anymore. Which is too bad. It’s a good face.”

Alex almost looked embarrassed.

“I don’t—it’s not.” He sighed.

“I don’t have a razor.”

That hit Nate square in the chest for reasons he couldn’t explain.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Alex didn’t look at him. He stared down at the table.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“He doesn’t like having a beard,” Art said to Nate.

“He likes to be clean-shaven.”

Nate said the only thing he could.

“I have… a razor. A spare blade. Shaving foam. You can—you can use it. If you want.”

Alex put his hands on the tabletop. He flexed his fingers against the wood. His brow was furrowed. He looked put out.

He was fucking aggravating.

Art cleared her throat pointedly.

“Fine,” Alex said.

Art coughed loudly.

Alex’s hands curled into fists.

“Thank you.”

AFTER THE door to the second bedroom was shut for the night, Nate went to the hall bathroom and left the razor and foam next to the sink.

ALEX WAS in the kitchen like he always was first thing in the morning, coffee in hand.

A second mug sat filled next to the coffee maker.

He had shaved.

His face had an almost square shape to it, blunt and firm. His jawline was sharp, his neck thick. He had a small dimple in his chin.

Nate stared.

Alex snorted.

“Feel better?” Nate finally asked.

Alex shrugged. He tilted his head toward the coffee he’d made for Nate.

They drank in silence.

ART SQUEALED when she saw him, demanding he come down to her level.

He did.

She ran her fingers over his face.

“There you are,” she said.

“I see you.”

ONE OF the first things he’d learned when he’d began his internship at the Post was that a good journalist knew which questions to ask, but they also knew when to keep their mouths shut and observe.

“You can see things you might not have if you’d wasted your time talking,” Ruth had told him gruffly.

“You don’t always have to talk. Let others do what they do and adapt from there.”

Artemis Darth Vader did not go anywhere without Alex Delgado following.

He was her protector, she’d said.

A bodyguard, he’d said.

She wanted to go outside?

That was fine.

Alex was right there behind her.

She wanted to read on the couch?

That was okay too. Alex was standing in the living room, near the window.

She was in the bathroom?

Alex was in the kitchen.

Sleeping in the bedroom?

Alex would open the door quietly, sticking his head in as if to check to make sure she hadn’t disappeared in the last fifteen minutes.

He made sure she ate. Sometimes Nate made their meals. Other times, Alex did. When it was Alex, it was always from a can. He would set the bowl in front of her and made sure she took at least the first bite before he’d go back to the kitchen.

He always served himself last.

She had his attention. Always.

“YOU CAN ask him,” Art was whispering.

“He likes us. He’s not going to say no.”

Alex muttered something in response, but Nate couldn’t make out what it was.

“Fine,” Art sighed.

“I’ll do it. You’re so weird. Nate. Hey, Nate!”

He looked up from his laptop, where he’d been going through notes of stories that would never be written. He couldn’t bring himself to trash them, though it was close.

“Yeah?”

“Can we use your washer and dryer? We don’t have many clothes. We need to wash them.”

Alex wouldn’t look at him.

“Yeah,” Nate said.

“Shit, sorry. I didn’t even think. Of course you can. The laundry room is down—”

“I know where it is,” Art said.

“When we first came here, I went through every room in the house. Alex said I was being nosy, but I was just trying to make sure no bears had gotten inside. They hadn’t. Which was good. I’ve never seen a bear in person before, but I imagine they are quite large.”

Nate just nodded, which was beginning to be his default reaction when Art said something that didn’t quite land right.

She beamed at him.

“Thank you! Alex. Alex. He said we could. Come on. Get up. You are so heavy, jeez, get up, get up! You promised you’d show me how to do laundry!”

Alex got up.

Art raced down the hall toward their bedroom.

Alex followed, albeit at a much slower pace.

He stopped near the table.

Nate looked up at him.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Wow,” Nate said.

“You’re getting better at that. I’m proud of you.”

Alex scowled at him before going after Art.

IT RAINED.

The surface of the lake was dark.

Art stared out the window and sighed, her book forgotten on the couch.

Alex asked.

“Do you have a deck of cards?”

It was the first time anyone had spoken in almost an hour. Nate looked up from his own book at Alex, who stood near the kitchen table. “What?”

“A deck of cards,” he repeated.

“Do you have one?”

“Uh. Yeah. There should be one in the—hold on a second.”

“You don’t have to—”

Nate ignored him, pushing himself off the couch. He felt Alex watching him as he walked down the hall to the closet across from the bathroom. He opened the door and pulled the metal string for the light overhead.

There were four shelves inside. The bottom held old towels.

The next shelf had spare sheets for the beds.

The third shelf had light bulbs and batteries and a couple of flashlights.

The top shelf was stacks of board games.

Sorry. Monopoly. Trivial Pursuit. Guess Who, which had been his favorite, though no one else had liked that one much. He’d hated Trivial Pursuit since it’d been an edition from the seventies. His dad had always won whenever they’d played.

When he could convince Rick to play Guess Who, it usually only lasted a few minutes before Rick would get bored and start to cheat.

Next to the board games were a couple of packs of playing cards.

He grabbed the one from the top and closed the closet door.

Alex was still standing in the same spot.

Art was staring out the window. The rain sluiced down the glass.

“Here,” Nate said.

Alex glanced down at Nate’s outstretched hand.

“Thanks,” he said.

“It’s… I know it’s—”

Nate shrugged.

“It’s fine. You’re welcome.”

Alex nodded. Then, “Artemis.”

She looked over at him.

He held the deck of cards up, shaking it slightly.

Her eyes lit up.

“Where did you get those?”

“Nate had them.”

“We have to play!”

He jerked his head toward the kitchen table.

Thunder rumbled overhead as she pulled out a chair and climbed onto it. He sat across from her.

“You going to play?” she asked, looking up at Nate.

He shook his head, unsure of what was happening.

Alex pulled the cards from the box.

He didn’t set the Joker aside.

He shuffled the deck expertly. The cards sounded like the rain on the roof.

He dealt two hands until the deck was gone.

He waited as Art picked up her cards. She frowned in concentration, the number of cards too big for the size of her hands.

“Cover your eyes,” she told Alex.

And wonder of all wonders, he did. He reached up with one hand and put it across his eyes.

Art pushed herself up on her knees in the chair, reaching across the table and waving her hand in front of his face.

Nate swore Alex’s lips twitched.

Once she appeared satisfied that Alex couldn’t see, she spread her cards on the table. She picked up any pairs and discarded them to the side.

Nate knew this game. He couldn’t remember the name of it, but he knew it.

She had the Joker.

She looked up at Nate.

“No helping him,” she ordered.

Nate could do nothing but nod.

She picked up the remaining cards and held them in front of her face, peeking over the tops.

“Okay,” she said.

“You can look now.”

Alex dropped his hand. He picked up his own cards and moved his matches back to the table.

“You can pick first,” Art said.

“Because I did last time.”

“How generous of you,” Alex said, dry as dust. He reached out and took a card from her, the one that stuck out above all the others that Art obviously wanted him to take.

It was the Joker.

She cackled.

Old Maid. These two people whom Nathaniel Cartwright had been living with for a week now, who were on the run from something unknown, were sitting in his kitchen in a cabin in the middle of nowhere playing Old Maid.

Art won the first game.

And the second.

And the third.

By the time they finished, the rain had stopped, and she said they needed to go outside because there was nothing like the smell in the air after the rain.

It was when she was standing by the door, Alex’s hand in hers, that she turned back toward Nate.

“Are you coming?”

Alex was looking at him too, waiting for his answer.

Eventually, Nate nodded.

They went outside.

Art was right. There was nothing like the smell in the air after the rain.

HIS SKIN was chilled by the time they came back in. He told them he was going to take a shower to warm up.

He stood under the spray for a long time.

He wondered how much longer they were going to stay.

The water felt good on his skin.

Art had changed into a pair of sweats that looked to be a size too big for her. The bottoms had been rolled up several times. She wore a sweatshirt that said DIVA on it. She looked ridiculous.

She was standing in the hall, looking up at the photographs on the walls. He could hear Alex moving off in the kitchen.

Nate hesitated.

She knew he was there.

“What are their names?” she asked.

“Art,” Alex said, a warning in his voice.

“I’m just asking.”

“It’s okay,” Nate said, surprised when he meant it.

Alex grunted, as he was wont to do.

“Linda,” Nate said, coming to stand next to Art.

“My mother. And my father was Mitchell.”

She reached up and fixed a frame that was slightly off-kilter. The photograph was of a fourteen-year-old Nate standing with his parents on the dock near the cabin. Rick had taken it. Nate had a fishing pole in his hands, the tip of which was bent, the line taut in the water. His father was next to him, a net in his hand, ready for the bluegill that was on the hook. His mother was laughing, her head rocked back, her smile wide, teeth bright, eyes closed.

“And they’re dead.”

“Yes,” Nate said.

She looked up at him, head tilted.

“You still don’t sound sad. Just angry. I thought when someone died, you were supposed to be sad.”

“It’s not like that. Not always.”

“Oh. Why?”

He shouldn’t be talking about this. Not with a little girl. Not with anyone, really. He didn’t ask for this. He’d come up here wanting to be alone, wanting to deal with his grief that was more rage than anything else. He should have told her to stop asking questions. Told her to mind her own business, which, honestly, was just a fucking hoot, given all the questions he had for them.

Instead he said.

“Because sometimes people don’t deserve for me to feel sad over them.”

“But you feel something.”

“Yes.”

She nodded as if she understood. He didn’t know if she did.

“And him?” She pointed to another photo. The first summer at the cabin. Rick had his arm slung around Nate’s shoulders. They both wore shorts and tank tops. They were barefoot on the porch. There was a little troll statue his mom had bought in Roseland sitting at the bottom of the steps. It’d be broken a few years later when a great storm rolled through the mountains in the fall. His mother had been weirdly sad over it when they’d come up on the weekend to inspect the damage. The cabin was fine—just a couple of shutters off their hinges. But that damn troll had been knocked over and broken into several pieces, and she’d been upset.

“Rick,” Nate said.

“My brother.”

“He doesn’t look like you. Not very much.”

And yeah, he’d heard that before, hadn’t he? Rick had been the handsome one, the cool one, the brother who played football in the fall and basketball in the spring. He’d been popular, always with a girl on his arm and a devilish twinkle in his eye. Nate had been in the marching band. He’d played the trombone. He hadn’t been very good at it.

He’d also worked for the Shout, the biweekly newsletter that went out at Northwest High. He’d been the intrepid reporter, chasing down leads for such riveting stories as new sod being laid down on the football field and Mr. Harrison’s retirement after teaching history for thirty-nine years (“I’m old, kid, I don’t know what the hell else you need for me to tell you”). He had loved it, had run it almost single-handedly. And yeah, it’d looked great on college applications, but he wasn’t Rick. Oh god no. Sure, Rick had washed out playing college ball at Arizona State. Had torn his ACL his sophomore year. He was a real estate agent now. A wife. A picket fence. Three kids. Nate had only met one of them. The others he’d seen in a Christmas card he thought had been sent to him by mistake.

“He took after my father,” Nate said, keeping his voice even.

“Oh,” Art said.

“I guess I can see that. Did he die too?”

“No.”

He knew the question that was coming next. Could see it working its way through her mind and down to her lips. “How did—”

“Art. That’s enough.”

She had an irritated look on her face when she glanced over her shoulder at Alex.

“I’m just asking questions.”

“I know that. But it’s not polite. Not always.”

“How can we ever learn anything if we don’t ask questions?”

“You have to respect boundaries.”

She looked back at Nate.

“Am I not respecting your boundaries?”

Nate… didn’t know what to say to that.

“It’s not—I don’t. I haven’t seen any of them for a long time. It’s… I don’t like talking about it.”

She nodded, reaching out and grabbing on to a couple of his fingers, squeezing them gently. For a moment, he thought he felt a warm pulse of something roll through his skin, but then it was gone.

“I’m sorry.”

“For?”

She shrugged. “This.”

He didn’t know what this was.

“It’s okay.”

“Do you want to take them down?”

Yes. He did. He said.

“It’s not—it’s fine.”

“Okay. But if you change your mind, let me know. I can help. You’ll have to get the ones I can’t reach, but it won’t take long.” She frowned.

“It’s like a Band-Aid, right? Just gotta pull that sucker off.”

“You’re very strange.”

Her smile was blinding.

“You have no idea.”

IT SURPRISED him when it was Alex who asked instead.

Later that night, Nate was on the couch, a book in his lap and a little girl curled up against him, snoring loudly. Her legs were folded up underneath her. Her head was on his shoulder, her mouth hanging open. They’d been reading The Ferguson Rifle. Ronan Chantry’s wife and son had died in a fire that he’d been blamed for, and he was heading west to try and start a new life. Art had been enthralled. She’d lasted all of ten minutes before her eyes had closed and a loud sound that no little girl should have been capable of making began falling from her mouth.

She was wearing her sunglasses too, because of course she was. They sat at an odd angle on her face. He thought about taking them off.

“What happened?” Alex asked. He was sitting at the kitchen table, a half-empty glass of water near his hand. Nate thought he had the gun, but it was out of sight. Alex never went anywhere without it.

“What?”

Alex’s brow furrowed. He looked pissed off and wary and confused, all at the same time. He jerked his head toward the photographs on the wall.

“What happened to boundaries?”

Alex looked down at the table.

“You’re right. It’s not my place.”

Nate sighed.

“It’s fine. It’s… complicated.”

“They’re dead.”

“Yes.”

“How complicated can that be?”

He felt irrationally angry.

“My mother was murdered.”

Alex didn’t flinch.

“That’s rough.”

Nate snorted.

“That’s one way to look at it.”

“When did that happen?”

“Just after Christmas.”

“Sorry.”

“Thanks. I think.”

Alex looked frustrated.

“I—it’s. I have a hard time. Sometimes. Saying… things.”

“Wow. That was as succinct as usual.”

“Nate.”

“Right. Right. Sorry. That was unnecessary.”

“I’m trying.”

“Are you?” Nate asked. “Why?”

“Art told me I needed to.” He looked faintly embarrassed.

“That was… blunt. Do you often do things she tells you to do?”

“Only the things that won’t get her hurt.”

She huffed out a little breath, smacking her lips. Nate and Alex waited, but she resumed snoring only moments later, a child-size chainsaw rumbling against Nate’s shoulder. “Still.”

“She’s wasn’t wrong.”

“About?”

“Trying harder. I’m not… good at these things.”

“What things?”

Alex scowled.

“You’re being difficult.”

“Maybe a little,” Nate admitted.

“But this is weird. Everything about this is weird.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Because I don’t know if you do.”

“You have no idea.”

He stared at Alex for a beat too long. Alex didn’t look away. Nate wanted to get a reaction out of him. Something. Anything. He said.

“My parents walked in on me with someone they didn’t expect when I was twenty-one. It didn’t go well. That was the last time I saw them.”

Alex’s shoulders stiffened slightly, but that was it.

“And your brother?”

“Wants nothing to do with me.”

Alex shifted awkwardly in his seat.

“Because of…”

“Yes. Because of.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Alex shrugged. “Okay.”

“That’s not… God. You’re so…”

“What?”

“Frustrating.”

“You’re not the first person that’s said that.”

“I don’t get you.”

“There’s nothing to get.”

Nate rolled his eyes.

“You’re on the run with a little girl you’re protecting from people you won’t tell me about. I’m pretty sure there’s something.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” Alex snapped.

“You’re… pushing.”

“Or maybe I’m trying. Just like Art told you that you needed to.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Whatever.”

Alex made a low sound in his throat like he was growling.

“You’re aggravating.”

“Pot, kettle.”

“You don’t know when to keep your mouth shut.”

“Not the first person who’s said that about me. Won’t be the last.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“There’s nothing to understand,” Nate said, flip and a little cruel. He couldn’t help it. He was feeling cornered, and he didn’t know how they’d gotten there.

“Why are you here?” Alex asked.

“I don’t know,” Nate said honestly.

“I don’t know much about anything anymore. I thought…” He shook his head.

“I thought I could use a change. That something would happen if I came here. I lost my job, and I… I don’t know. I thought I’d use this place to clear my head.”

“And then we were here.”

“Yeah. There is that.”

“I offered to leave,” Alex reminded him.

“I know.”

“We still could.”

“Can you?” Nate asked.

“Where would you go? Do you have a plan? Money? Any other place to stay?”

Alex looked uncomfortable.

“I’d figure it out.”

“Because of her.”

“Yes.”

“Because it’s your job to protect her.”

“Yes.”

“To get her back home.”

“Yes.”

It was close. This thing that was happening around him, that was happening to him, was almost within reach. There were things he wasn’t being told. He knew that. Obviously. But everything he had been told had sounded plausible, regardless of how ludicrous it was. Still, it felt slightly off. He didn’t have the full picture. He didn’t even think he was close.

He said.

“You can trust me. You know that, right?”

Alex shook his head slowly. It shouldn’t have stung as much as it did.

“It’s not… it’s not you. It’s just… she’s. She’s special. More than you could ever know. And I—can’t take chances. Not with her. It’s not you.”

Nate chuckled.

“It sounds like you’re breaking up with me again.”

He swore he saw the smallest of smiles on Alex’s face, there and then gone again.

“I would, you know.”

“Would what?”

“Trust you. If I could.”

They didn’t say much after that.

SHE’S SPECIAL.

Nate would remember that. For a long time to come. That moment. Those words.

He didn’t understand. Not then. Not how far it went. How far it could go. There was this girl, and there was her giant shadow. She wore oversized sunglasses and pink socks and said things like.

“Hey, partner, how ’bout we mosey on outside and see what we could see on that thar dusty trail?” with a ridiculous drawl that would have been grating coming from anyone else. But from her, it was oddly charming in ways Nate couldn’t quite put his finger on.

He didn’t understand, no, but he followed them as they did what she’d asked. They moseyed on outside to see what they could see on that thar dusty trail. Nate wondered if he could find a cowboy hat in Roseland for her. He thought she would love it.

He didn’t understand her. Or her shadow. He didn’t know where they’d come from, where they were going, what was going to happen next.

But he followed them all the same.

She’s special, Alex had said.

She skipped sometimes as they walked along the barely there trail that led away from the lake. She hummed to herself too, songs that almost sounded familiar. Every now and then, she’d bend over and pick up a rock, inspecting it up close before discarding it or handing it over to Alex, who would put it into his pocket without question.

Nate could see the bulge of the gun tucked into the back of his pants.

He followed them still.

He thought of his phone, turned off for a couple of days.

He’d get to it. Eventually.

There was a clearing half a mile away from the cabin. A field, really, where in late spring and early summer, wildflowers bloomed in bright colors, stretching as far as the eye could see. In warmer months, people would bring blankets and picnic baskets and eat ham sandwiches and potato salad and drink pop and lemonade.

The field was partially in bloom now as they walked into it. Tulips, mostly, red and yellow and white and a purple so dark it almost looked black.

“Wow,” Art breathed.

“Would you look at that.”

Nate frowned.

“Usually there are more by now. I know it’s been drier than normal, but. Or maybe it’s already past peak bloom and this is all that’s left.”

But that didn’t seem right. Getting closer, it looked as if many of the flowers had yet to open. Maybe if they had time, they could come back here in a week or two to see if anything had changed. He wanted her—them—to see what it looked like when they were all open. When the entire field was filled with almost every color imaginable.

He’d come here with his mother. She’d been told about it by someone in Roseland. It was summer, so it wasn’t like it’d been in the spring. But she’d wanted to see it anyway. Rick hadn’t wanted to go, saying he didn’t want to see flowers. His father was on the dock, fishing pole in hand, beer in a cooler buried in melting ice.

So he’d gone with her.

He would always remember the look on her face when she’d seen the field. Like someone seeing color for the very first time and unsure of how to process it. Her eyes had widened, her hand coming to her throat. She hadn’t spoken for a long time, and Nate had stood by her side, wondering what it was that had taken her breath away.

He hadn’t understood then.

He didn’t know if he did now.

But he wanted to. He wanted Art to see it. To see if she would see it as his mother had. And then maybe she could explain it to him.

He walked through the field.

Alex stayed at the edge.

He heard Art following behind him, humming her quiet little song.

He didn’t hear it when it happened. He was too focused on each step he took, careful to avoid crushing any flowers beneath his feet. He said.

“It’s different. Later, when it’s all here. All the colors. When the wind blows through them. It rustles. Like bones. But bright bones, if that makes sense.”

“Art,” he heard Alex say.

“This isn’t—”

“It is,” Art said. “It is.”

Nate didn’t turn.

“It’s something to see. They don’t have things like this back in DC. Not really. It’s all steel and stone and potted plants that you forget to water that sit out on tiny balconies. It’s a half life. A sleight of hand. An illusion.”

“But it’s real here,” Art said.

He nodded, closing his eyes and inhaling. His allergies would probably give him hell for it later, but right now he didn’t care.

“It’s real here.”

“Is that why you came back here?” Art asked him.

“To feel real?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s okay not to know.”

“Is it?”

“I don’t know.”

He laughed, the tangle of knots in his chest loosening for the first time since he could remember. He turned. “It’s—”

And that’s all he got out.

That’s all he could say.

Alex stood on the other side of the field, watching them both.

Art was only a few feet away, smiling quietly at Nate.

Behind him, the flowers had bloomed.

Every single one of them.

The entire goddamn field.

In a matter of minutes.

Gooseflesh prickled along his arms. His chest. His neck. He felt hot and cold at the same time. He said, “What.”

“They must have been listening,” Art said, shrugging slightly.

“The sun is shining, and maybe they just needed some encouragement. The earth is like that, you know. It needs to hear that someone is waiting for it. People are like that too, I think.”

She’s special, Alex had told him.

He didn’t understand it. Not then.

He allowed himself to believe she was right. That that’s all it was. The sun. The fact that it was spring. It was rational. Logical… mostly. That was how his mind worked. He dealt in facts. Discernable truths. There was no room for flights of fancy. For esoteric bullshit about the earth listening. They just happened to pick the exact day, the exact hour, the exact minute to walk through this field on a bright, sunny morning when the flowers opened.

That was it.

Alex was watching him with an indecipherable expression.

Art pushed her sunglasses up on her nose.

“You’re right,” she said.

“It really is something.”

And not for the first time, in a field of flowers, Nate wondered if any of this was real.