The hum shifts immediately. Unsettled. Distance widening.
I stand there longer than I should. Listening. The Range feels uncertain. And so do I.
She’s going to leave. She has to. She’s too rational for this. Too trained.
And I can’t do this to Martin.
I can’t fracture his family because I failed containment.
Winter pasture is far enough. Isolated enough. I’ll leave before she does.
One last talk with Mags. Then I go.
Alone.
The hum doesn’t protest. It doesn’t spike. It waits.
And that waiting feels worse than anything else.
Chapter
Twelve
JOSEPHINE
Idon’t look at him when I leave. That’s the first lie.
I feel him watching from the fence line, hat low, shoulders squared in that way he stands when he’s pretending not to guard something.
Or someone.
But I don’t look. Distance is data. Data is safer than desire.
The car rattles as I pull onto Main, gravel popping against the undercarriage. My hands feel steadier on the steering wheel than they did this morning, which should count for something.
Emotion clouds pattern recognition. That’s what Dr. Halpern always said. And right now, I need pattern recognition.
Not pulse synchronization. Not humming air.
Not a man who looks half his age, if that.
The Redfern Feed sign creaks as I pass. Mags stands out front, moving sale placards, her silvery red braid bright against the faded clapboard siding. She straightens one sign, then looks up.
Right at me.
Not startled. Not curious. Like she knew the exact second I would drive by.
She lifts a hand and waves. Polite. Neighborly. Normal.
Barely pushing sixty, not one hundred and thirty.
I hesitate before lifting two fingers from the wheel in return. Her smile lingers half a beat too long. I look away first.
I have to get away from all of this.
I need climate control and archival boxes and fluorescent lighting that hums for ordinary electrical reasons.
The museum door shuts behind me with a soft, decisive click. Inside smells like lemon polish and paper. Contained time. Safe time.
