Chapter 42 Finding Rhythm （Wren）
FINDING RHYTHM (WREN)
By the third week, the Delta has rules I recognize.
Pale light filters through the canvas before the sun clears the reeds. The river sounds different in the hour before dawn—muted, expectant. I dress quietly, braid my hair tight, step out into air that still holds a trace of cool.
Kieran is already at the fire pit, coaxing last night’s embers back to life. He glances up when I approach and nods. No words yet. He pours hot water over coffee. I set out bowls and bread. The routine has settled into something easy, almost domestic.
The kids emerge in stages—bleary, rumpled, speaking in sleep-soft Romanian. Ana is first, as always, field journal tucked under her arm. The boys from the football debate tumble out together, shoving each other with the careless violence of teenage affection.
“Morning,” Kieran says in English, handing over cups of tea and instant coffee. They accept with grunts that might be gratitude.
Mihai arrives last, scanning the group with the practiced eye of someone who counts heads without meaning to.
“Good,” he says. “Everyone breathing.”
A ripple of laughter.
“Today we map the northern tributaries. Fishing window before lunch.” He gestures toward the water. “Pods as assigned. Two skiffs. Stay within sight of each other. Meet back here by three. Bring dinner if you can.”
Kieran and I exchange a look. I nod once.
The kids scatter toward their gear, already arguing about who gets which rod.
The two skiffs slide off the dock minutes apart, engines idling low. Kieran takes his pod—Stefan and Andrei up front, Cristian quiet at the stern, two others wedged between coolers and nets. I follow with mine, Ana beside me, Raluca scanning the water like she’s reading a map only she can see.
We move in parallel through the channel, never more than a few boat-lengths apart. Sometimes he pulls ahead. Sometimes I do. The water decides.
The kids shout observations back and forth about depth, current, shadows under the reeds. English when they remember. Romanian when they don’t.
Kieran stands steady at the tiller, posture relaxed, making constant micro-adjustments. When Stefan calls out a question about depth versus current, Kieran answers without raising his voice.
“Current matters more. Fish follow food. Food follows current.”
“See?” Stefan crows, pointing across the water toward Andrei. “Current!”
“That’s what I said,” Andrei argues.
“You said depth—”
“Test both,” Raluca calls from my skiff. “Science.”
I catch Kieran’s eye across the water and smile before I can stop myself. He sees it. The corner of his mouth lifts in response.
We reach the confluence where three channels braid together, water folding in on itself, purposeful and fast. We nose the skiffs toward a shallow sandbar and cut the engines.
The kids pile out, lines already in hand.
“This is good,” Raluca declares.
Cristian crouches near the reeds, studying the surface. “There,” he says quietly, pointing. “Shadow. Structure.”
“Good eye,” Kieran says, angling his skiff closer.
Lines arc through the air. We drift. The sun climbs. Heat settles.
I’m checking our GPS against the chart when Ana groans softly. “I had strike,” she says. “Too slow.”
“Timing comes,” Kieran tells her easily. “You’ll get it.”
“You fish a lot?” Stefan asks.
“Used to,” Kieran says. “Not lately. Different water.” He glances toward me. “Wren knows the science. I just know how not to sink.”
“The science is theory,” I say. “You know how water actually behaves.”
Something quiet passes between us. Recognition. Complement, offered without ceremony.
Cristian reels in his line, watches the two of us, then says in careful English, “You work good together.”
The words land.
Raluca doesn’t look up, but I see her smile.
“We’ve had practice,” Kieran says after a beat.
“Good practice,” Cristian agrees, apparently done with the topic.
Lunch is bread and cheese on the sandbar, feet in the shallows, skiffs pulled up behind us. The kids sprawl in the shade, voices lazy now, slipping between languages.
Kieran and I sit a little apart but not far—close enough to supervise, far enough to let them forget we’re listening.
Ana says something to Raluca in Romanian—quick, light—then turns to me.
“Irina?” she asks, eyebrows lifting, waiting for confirmation.
It lands softly, like it always does—familiar, ordinary, mine.
I nod.
Kieran doesn’t react. Not outwardly. But his head tilts just a fraction, the way it does when he files something away. His gaze flicks to me and back to the water, measured and thoughtful.
He doesn’t ask. That’s what tells me he heard it.
“They’re good kids,” he says, watching Stefan attempt to skip a stone and hit Andrei instead.
“They are.” I take a sip from my bottle, water already warm. “Cristian notices everything.”
“Yeah.” He hesitates. “Does that bother you? That they’ve noticed us?”
I think about the question. About how it would have felt a week ago.
“No,” I say. “Should it?”
He shakes his head. “Just checking.”
Raluca wades into the reeds to inspect something with intense focus. Andrei attempts to demonstrate fish-scaling with confidence and no actual skill.
“You want to tell him he’s doing it backward?” Kieran asks.
“I want to see how long it takes him to realize.”
He laughs, easy in his own skin.
When I call that it’s time to head back, the kids gather gear with the efficiency of people who’ve learned that things go faster when everyone helps.
As we load the skiffs, Kieran reaches for the same rope I do. Our hands brush. Brief. Unremarked. He doesn’t pull away. Neither do I.
We push off, settling into motion—him ahead now, me following. At the next fork, he slows and looks back. I check the GPS and point left. He nods and takes us through without hesitation.
Trust built in small increments. Steady. Real.
By the time we reach base camp, the sun is angling low, light turning honeyed. Mihai waits on the platform, already counting heads.
The kids spill out, talking over each other about near-misses and improbable fish stories. Kieran secures the lines. I gather the charts.
When we’re done, we stand for a moment watching the kids drift toward the tents, their voices carrying across the water in a jumble that somehow makes sense.
“Good day,” Kieran says quietly.
I look at him closely. Sunburn across his nose. Hair sticking up where he’s run his fingers through it. Shirt damp with sweat and river water. Tired. Content. Grounded.
“Yeah,” I say. “Good day.”
That night, lying in my tent, listening to the Delta settle into darkness, I think about Cristian’s words.
“You work good together.”
We do.
And for the first time in months, that doesn’t scare me.
It just is.
The next day, while the kids are busy sorting gear and Mihai argues with one of the boys about knots that are very obviously not the problem, Kieran finds me by the supply table.
I’m checking batteries, lining them up by size. I don’t look up right away.
“Wren,” he says, careful. Then, after a beat, “Can I say something? If now’s not a good time, I won’t.”
It matters that he gives me the out.
I cap the marker and set it down. “Okay.”
He doesn’t move closer. Keeps his hands loose at his sides.
“I’m sorry,” he says finally. No preamble. No softening.
My fingers curl against the edge of the table, wood biting into my palm.
“For what I did. The bet. For using my position to get close to you. For taking away your ability to choose freely. I don’t expect forgiveness.” He continues, “I just needed you to hear me say it.”
He pauses, breath steady.
“What I did was wrong,” he adds. “Full stop.”
Then he nods once, like the conversation is finished, and steps back.
“Thank you for letting me say it,” he says. “I won’t bring it up again.”
He turns away before I can answer, heading back toward the others, picking up a coil of rope and handing it off to Cristian without breaking stride.
I stay where I am, palm flat on the table, breathing through the quiet he left behind.
My chest tightens, not with relief, exactly. With something steadier.
For the first time since the truth came out, I don’t feel cornered by his remorse. Or responsible for what he does with it.
The apology didn’t ask me to carry it.
I pick up the batteries again and finish lining them up, the rhythm returning easily.
When I glance up a moment later, Kieran is laughing quietly at something Stefan says, sun on his shoulders, attention fully where it should be.
Not on me.
And somehow, that’s what makes it possible to keep breathing.