She studied me for a long moment. “Why?”
I didn’t answer immediately. The fire popped sharply outside.
“I’ve spent a lot of years avoiding things,” I said finally.
“Things like…?”
“People. Crowds. Towns. Staying in one place too long.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Should I be worried?”
“No.”
“Because it does sound a little serial killer-y.”
“It isn’t.”
“Should I ask if you own a basement?”
“I don’t even own a house.”
She grinned. “Good answer.”
“I just mean…” I exhaled slowly. “I stay away from civilization when I can. It’s easier. Cleaner. Predictable.”
Her expression softened. “Why?”
“I don’t know how to be good at normal life,” I said simply. “But out here? I know what I’m doing.”
Her gaze held mine. “You’re good at normal life more than you think.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” she said, voice unexpectedly gentle. “You just don’t know it because you keep running from anything that resembles connection. You’re great at ordering coffee at coffee shops and organizing garages. You’re totally normal. But I get the connection part. It’s easy to be a zombie.”
I didn’t like how much that landed.
“How would you know?” I asked quietly.
“Because…” She hesitated. “Because I do it too.”
That surprised me.
She shrugged. “I pretend I’m fearless. I pretend nothing scares me. I pretend I don’t need anyone except maybe Mortimer the moose. But when something real starts happening, something that feels like it matters, I freak out.”
I stared at her, and she stared back.
Something tightened and eased inside me at the same time.
She wrapped her arms tighter around herself. “Anyway. Maybe we’re the same amount of dysfunctional.”
“Maybe.”
“And maybe that’s fine,” she added. “As long as we survive the next forty-eight hours without getting eaten by anything.”
“A solid plan.”
She shivered—barely, but enough that I saw it. The cold was settling in. The temperature had dropped fast now that the sun was gone.
