Wayfarers

Sylvie

Winslow’s ears go up.

And there he is, in my periphery. Hands in pockets. I don’t want to look at him. Winslow does. Winslow is thrashing his tail like a whip.

Knox says, “I thought you’d taken off.” Unspoken: and left me here.

Had that been my intention? I don’t know.

“No,” I say finally.

“Sylvie, I—”

“If you need to get your tent, get your tent. And if you need me to, I’ll drive you to your grandma’s in the morning, or wherever. I don’t care. But I don’t want to talk.”

“Okay.”

“I’m just going to sit for a little.”

“Okay.”

A LITTLE LATER

“That’s the third time we’ve heard ‘Margaritaville’ in the last half hour,” Knox observes.

“It sure is.”