“You think they’ll come tonight?”
“If it’s Russians, probably not. They don’t like the dark.”
She glanced at me, then out at the woods. “So it’s just you and me and the coyotes.”
I nodded, unsure if she meant it as comfort or warning. She pulled her feet onto the couch, toes burrowing into the upholstery. “You ever get tired of this?”
“Paranoia?”
“The waiting. The readiness.”
I let my head rest against the wall, eyes never leaving the window. “No. If I do, that’s when they get me.”
“I feel the same way.”
The clock on her desk ticked each second, too loud for the space. She shivered, but not from cold. I watched her profile—a nose that belonged to a mathematician, lips pressed flat, hands in constant twitch. She was scanning every outcome, trying to decide if I was a solution or a variable. She decided on neither and said, “You can turn on the TV if you want.”
I shook my head. “Light draws focus.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“I’ve heard.”
We sat. The darkness outside pressed in, but I found a kind of peace in the standoff. The house was a box, sure, but it was a defensible box. If they came, I’d know before the first step hit the porch. That was all I could ask.
She leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring at the digital clock now. “I should warn you, I’m not a good host.”
“I’m not a good guest,” I said, and the joke landed, soft but true.
Her face relaxed, maybe a half millimeter, then the mask was back. “Do you want coffee?”
“Not if it means getting up.”
She snorted. “You’re lazier than you look.”
“I prefer ‘economical.’”
Another silence, this one less oppressive. She shifted, and her knee pressed against my thigh, accidental at first but then left in place. I let it happen because the contact anchored me. She turned to look at me, glasses catching the faint glow from the desk. “You really think they’ll come for me here?”
I nodded. “Eventually.”
She considered that, then said, “Good.”
I didn’t ask why. I already knew the answer.
A branch scraped the siding. I tensed, hand hovering near the Glock, and she noticed. “It’s just wind,” she whispered.
“Wind doesn’t kill people,” I said, but didn’t move.
She leaned back, folding her arms tight, and let her head drop onto the couch. “Maybe it should,” she said. “Would make things simpler.”
I glanced at her, then at the clock, then back to the window. The world outside had gone pitch; nothing to see but my own reflection and the potential for violence.
I thought about the last time I’d felt safe. I couldn’t remember the year, let alone the place. But this wasn’t bad, as holding patterns went. Two survivors, a gun, and a house full of silence.
“You want first watch, or should I take it?” I asked, but she was already asleep, or pretending to be, her breath gone slow and even.
I watched her for a minute, then checked the front window again, eyes tracing the ghost of movement in the trees. Every sense on edge, every muscle coiled for the next bad thing.
