The heat that burns my cheeks is hotter than the torchlight.
He’s not done this before. Any time I’ve found some scrap of privacy for this, he’s stayed back.
Not this time.
Standing over me, his head tilts, almost like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do, if I’ll shove at him or skitter away.
But I do nothing except hold the wet wipe against myself,shieldingmyself.
He hums a curt sound before he extends his hand—
I frown at the square he’s holding.
My eyes squint against the darkness, the flimsy gleam of flames not quite reaching me behind the wheel.
As if reading my mind, he lifts his hand, the square with it, and brings it into the light touching the curve of the wheel.
I blink on it.
The edges sharpen, the pattern clears—and I realise he’s holding one of the period pads from my backpack.
“I…” I’m not bleeding. “I don’t need that.”
Still, he offers the pad to me, right in front of my hot face. “You need it.”
Cheeks flaming, I lift my hand from my thigh, then snatch the pad. The movement wavers me, and I steel my grip on the tyre so I don’t lose my balance.
His gaze drops for a split moment, barely a second, if half of one.
But he still fucking looked.
And before he turns his back on me, the creases of a frown etch into his face.
He stalks out of sight.
I swerve my narrow stare between the arch of the wheel and my underwear as I stick the pad on, then fold back the wings.
Then I wipe.
Wet wipes have gotten me through this lifetime of no showers, no baths, not even the hot springs. But it isn’t a substitute that has me feeling clean. It’s like sanitising my hands when I know I need to wash them.
I finish up behind the wheel and, as I come around the tractor and into the path of light, I fasten the strings of my sweatpants.
The stare I aim at him is narrowed.
He doesn’t see it, not while he’s crouched with his back to me, digging through his satchel.
The knife strapped to his thigh glistens in the light, a blade that looks like it’s been crafted from glass and peppered with flakes of gold.
Disinterested, he orders, “Cover your body.”
A familiar command.
It’s his way of telling me to put the oil on, the stuff that protects me from freezing to death in the cold.
He gestures to the bench in front of him—and I just notice them now, the rows of stone pews behind the mausoleums.
The one directly in front of him is shrouded in weeds, but there are a few jars set out along the left side, a warm soapy cloth folded neatly, and on the right side, nothing, a clear spot.
