Knox
“How long you been awake?” Sylvie’s voice startles me.
“About a half hour, I dunno. I take it I didn’t wake you when I got up?”
Sylvie yawns and rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands. A hank of her hair bulges adorably. She looks really good with bedhead. “Nah. How about that storm last night?”
“Wild. It went for a good while. I didn’t hear it stop.”
Sylvie sits next to me on the van’s bumper. “What’re you reading?”
“The Kite Runner. Rereading. It’s one of my favorite books. Ever read it?”
“Nope.”
I hand it to her. “Here. This is yours now.”
“I can get my own copy.”
“It’s a thank-you gift for all you’ve done for me.”
“You’re good company. That’s gift enough.”
“You’re good company.”
“No you’re good company.” She smiles.
I smile back. “Keep it. It’s a thrifted copy anyway. For whatever reason, there’s no book more ubiquitous at thrift stores. I don’t get it, because it’s amazing. But fair warning, it’s sad.”
“So sad that you and everyone else feel compelled to get rid of it?”
“No, more like we want to share it.”
“Fair enough.”
“Anyway, thanks for letting me sleep inside last night. I guess it might’ve gotten bad in the tent.”
“Don’t thank me, but I will take a copy of The Kite Runner if you got one. Oh wait.”
“Haha. Aren’t you funny. If we see a thrift store on the way to the House on the Rock, let’s dip in and I’ll prove to you my hypothesis. I predict the presence of three copies there. I can replenish.”
“Three copies? Getting a little cocky with our prognostications, are we?”
“Three.”
“You realize,” Sylvie says, staring me down, “that if there are not precisely three copies at whatever thrift shop we stop at, I will be mocking you mercilessly.”
“I guess I do now.”
“That means two copies? Merciless mocking. Four copies? You guessed it. Merciless mocking.”
“Okay, I meant to say at least three copies.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t, did you.”
I sigh. “I guess no, I didn’t.”
A LITTLE LATER
“That was some astoundingly good chia oatmeal,” I say.
“Okay, that’s definitely the first time that sentence has passed anyone’s lips, alive or dead,” Sylvie says.
“I literally can’t stop thinking about it.”
“That might be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Stop selling yourself short. It was like the perfect balance of salty and sweet, creamy and chewy.”
“I think you were just starved after burning so many calories tossing and turning last night.”
I look at Sylvie, mortified. “Oh no. Did I?”
Sylvie’s watching the road. “Dude, what is this guy—hey, guy! Merge! I’m letting you merge. Yeah, okay, don’t give me a crusty look after I let you merge. Sheesh.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“You’re so concerned about this.”
“Well, yeah, I am. You were so nice to shelter me from the storm, I hate to think I displayed bad bed etiquette.”
“Bediquette?” she asks.
“See, imagine if I’d made that joke.”
“I know.”
“You’d have never let me live it down for the rest of this road trip.”
“For the rest of our lives.” She pauses. “That is, if you intend to stay in touch with me after this road trip.”
“You kidding?”
“No.”
“Of course I plan on staying in touch with you. Why wouldn’t I?”
“I dunno, the evidence points to you not being the best about staying in touch with people.”
“Because I don’t have a phone?”
“The primary means for staying in touch at this point in human history, yes.”
“I’m not trying to make a statement. It’s just something I don’t have. But I’m going to fix that.”
“Joining the masses?”
“I think so.”
“That makes me sad, a little,” Sylvie says.
“Sylvie.”
“What?”
“You just said it made you not trust that I’d stay in touch.”
“I can hold both emotions at once.”
“I guess so. But yeah, I very strongly intend to stay in touch. Now, because you still haven’t answered me: Did I toss and turn?”
“No more than Winslow usually does.”
“That does not bring me comfort.”
“It was fine.”
“I tried to be very conscientious and a complete gentleman.”
“I could tell.”
“How?”
“You were really stiff.”
I look at her, aghast.
She dissolves in peals of giggles. “Not like that, you goof. I have no idea about that precisely because you were a perfect gentleman. I mean that you seemed very on edge and careful when you weren’t sleeping.”
I shake my head and crane to see if a bird sitting atop a utility pole is a red-tailed hawk. “Well, I tried.”
“How about me? Did I behave in my sleep?”
“Other than talking in your sleep, a perfect lil’ lady.”
“Shut up, I don’t talk in my sleep.”
“Hey, no more than Winslow usually does.”
“What did I say in my sleep?”
“You said ‘Cal’ something. Something about Cal.”