We hit the ground floor, push through the foyer, and I bundle her into the back of the SUV next to Diana. Her hand doesn't let go of mine until I pull away to close the door.
"Everyone accounted for?" I radio Decker.
"Affirmative. First group arrived at the inn. Roads are holding but won't for long."
"We're moving. ETA thirty minutes."
The drive is bad. Not the worst I've experienced—that honor belongs to a convoy run in Helmand during a sandstorm—but bad enough. Visibility drops to twenty feet. Trees bow sideways across the road. Twice I have to navigate around debris that wasn't there five minutes ago.
In the rearview mirror, Diana reads something on her phone with practiced calm. The thriller writer—seated beside me in the front—watches the road with sharp attention, occasionally pointing out hazards before I see them. Definitely checking her background.
Kassidy sits rigid in the back seat, laptop bag clutched to her chest, eyes locked on the storm outside. She's shaking. Small tremors in her hands, her jaw tight, the shaking of someone running on adrenaline that's starting to fade.
"Hey." I catch her eyes in the mirror. "We're fine. Fifteen more minutes."
She nods. Doesn't speak. But her grip on the bag loosens slightly.
The Tidehaven Inn materializes through the rain like a lighthouse—a sturdy three-story building with a stone facade and glowing windows. The parking lot is half full with other evacuees, and Decker meets us at the entrance with a status report and a look of relief.
"Rooms are limited," he says. "I got Hartwell a single. Poet and memoirist are sharing. The other rooms are taken by civilians."
"How many left?"
"One. King bed." He pauses. "For two."
The math is simple. Six writers, two security. Diana gets her own room for security purposes. Everyone else doubles up. Except there's an odd number, and the remaining room goes to?—
"Monroe and me."
Decker's expression is carefully neutral. "I can take the lobby. There's a couch?—"
"You're on a twelve-hour shift. You need a bed. I'll figure it out."
At the front desk, a harried woman with a Tidehaven Inn polo and a flashlight confirms the situation. One room, one king bed, and the inn is at capacity with evacuees from three counties.
"I'm sorry," she says, not sounding particularly sorry. "Take it or leave it."
Kassidy appears beside me, still damp from the rain, hair in complete rebellion, laptop bag slung across her body like armor. "What's the situation?"
"One room left."
"One room? For... both of us?"
"King bed."
Her face does something complicated—a rapid-fire sequence of surprise, calculation, and what I'm fairly sure is panic, all smoothed over with a thin veneer of composure.
"Fine," she says. "Fine. I'll sleep in the chair."
"I'll take the floor."
"You're not sleeping on the floor."
"I've slept on worse."
"That's not the point."
"What is the point?"
