I think of the girl who told me no at a party. Who saw through the performance before I knew there was one. Who demanded I slow down, draw the diagram, understand the forces instead of guessing. Who looked at me when I reached for that loose strand of hair and said “Consent’s a thing.”
The stars burn on.
At some point, the cold sharpens enough that my thoughts slow, edges blurring. My body curls inward without instruction, conserving heat. I tuck my hands against my ribs, feel my heart there—steady, stubborn.
I still think of Wren. Not the way she looks at me now. Not the careful space she’s given me.
I think of the girl who called me on my bullshit from the very first moment and never stopped.
This night isn’t punishment.
It’s calibration—a fire without flame, burning away what doesn’t hold when you stop moving.
If she finds me in the morning, it will be because I finally learned how to stay.
I don’t pray. I don’t bargain.
I let myself be small under the sky and trust that morning exists whether I earn it or not.
When sleep finally takes me, it’s not dramatic.
It’s deep.
And for the first time in a long while, unguarded.
44
STEADY STATE (WREN)
Iwake to boats rocking softly against their moorings, reeds whispering when the breeze shifts, insects already busy before the sun clears the trees. The morning feels wrong—too quiet in a way that carries dread instead of peace.
I wasn’t ready for him not to come back.
I dress without turning on the lantern. Boots. Braid. The thin long-sleeve I wear before the heat fully settles. Outside, the sky is a pale wash, undecided. Morning in the Delta isn’t dramatic. It just...arrives.
I step down to the waterline and scan the boats.
Yesterday, Mihai, Radu, and I covered the mapped channels while Alex stayed back with the kids. We called off the search at dusk, when the river made it clear it wouldn’t give him back in the dark. We’d pushed as far as we could without turning urgency into danger.
The kids sensed the shift immediately. One of the girls asked if Kieran would be back for dinner. I told her yes. The words came easily, even if I wasn’t sure I believed them.
After sunset, the water went black and flat, reflecting nothing. Sounds sharpened—every splash, every wingbeatamplified. We kept the fires low. Radios stayed on. No one said his name.
If we did, it would stop being procedure and turn into fear.
I sat apart from the others, knees drawn up, watching the place where channels disappear. I kept my mouth shut. I kept my eyes open.
I didn’t sleep.
At dawn, Mihai finds me still at the water’s edge. We stand shoulder to shoulder, the river lapping gently at our boots, unconcerned. Behind us, the camp stirs—zippers, low voices, the clatter of a dropped mug.
A boy appears at the edge of the clearing, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He looks from Mihai to me, already reading the air.
“Where’s Kieran?” he asks.
“He’ll be back this morning,” I say without hesitation. “We’re heading to the next stop this afternoon.”
As I step into the skiff, yesterday cuts in—sharp and uninvited. The sun high. Me checking my watch when ten minutes stretches to fifteen. Then twenty.
