The air feels thinner here. My lungs expand too quickly.
“Back up,” I say.
“No.”
The word is simple. Firm.
The hum spikes. Not like yesterday. Sharper. Faster.
A bird startles from the brush without visible cause. Josephine freezes mid-scribble.
“You felt that?” she asks quietly.
“Storm pressure,” I answer.
“There isn’t a storm.”
There will be. If this continues. “There’s always a storm.”
She rises. Steps closer. The distance between us narrows to inches.
The heat hits immediately. Stronger than before. My pulse speeds up… then locks. Synchronizes.
I hear it again. Her heartbeat. Steady. Unafraid.
The headache vanishes. My breathing evens. The world sharpens around us. Too sharp.
Winnie shifts behind me, uneasy.
Josephine lifts her hand slowly. Not to push me away. To test. Her fingers brush my wrist. Direct skin.
The reaction is immediate. The hum doesn’t spike. It anchors.
The pressure that’s been building since dawn collapses inward, tight and contained between us.
For one suspended second, everything stills.
Wind stops. Sage holds. Even the faint insect drone cuts out.
Josephine inhales sharply. “You?—”
The wind slams back into motion. Hard. Sand whips across the wash.
I stagger back as if I’ve been struck. Pain lances through my sternum this time. Not external. Internal. A containment fracture.
Josephine grabs my arm to steady me.
The contact reignites the calm—too fast, too complete.
Impossible.
I rip my arm free.
Distance. Distance is discipline.
“You can’t do that,” I snap.
“Do what?”
