Alberto narrows his eyes. “Is that whyyou’rehere?”
I pin him with my gaze. “I know why my dad left,” I reply, deliberately misunderstanding. “He was deployed, and then he died in a helicopter crash.”
Alberto grinds his cigarette beneath his boot. “Maybe what you know isn’t as important as what youdon’tknow, right?” He gives Wyatt a pointed look before he walks downstairs.
Joe stands up. “Guess I’m gonna go figure out what I did to make my father disappear,” he mutters, and he leaves.
“I should apologize to him.” I bend my knees, groaning. “I’m an idiot.”
Wyatt shrugs. “No, actually, you’re quite bright. But your sense of tact could use a polish.”
“Sometimes it’s hard for me to remember not everyone spends all day with people who are dying.”
“True,” Wyatt says. “Some of us spend all day with people who are already dead.” He nudges my shoulder. “Besides, you’re not wrong. It’s why the Coffin Texts even existed. What’s the point of life, if not to accumulate knowledge?”
I glance at him, surprised. “That’s absolutelynotthe point of life. It’s who your existence snags on. Who changes, because they knew you. There’s not a single tomb without art that represents a relationship—a father and his children, a man and his wives, even a noble and his citizens.Whatyou know isn’t nearly as important aswhoyou know. Who will miss you. Who you will miss.”
Wyatt studies me. “Who misses you?” he asks quietly. “Whom do you miss?”
Since that first day, we have not talked about Meret, but suddenly I miss her so fiercely that everything in me aches. I look at Wyatt, while the call to prayer runs over us like a river.
I imagine Re ducking underground, slipping into the corpse of Osiris as if he’s wrapping himself in a blanket.
I think about why I came here.
I think of all the people whose hands I have held while they step off a cliff, into the unknown. Each time, I am floored by the bravery of humans. Each time, I am aware of what a coward I am.
“I miss lots of things,” I say lightly. “Food without sand in it is at the top of the list, right now.”
“Ice cream.”
“Air-conditioning.” I laugh.
“Well, there are some lovely hotels in Egypt. Or so I hear.”
“I didn’t come for a vacation.”
“Right,” Wyatt says, tightening the trap he’s laid. “What did you come for?”
I hesitate. “Clarity.”
He tilts his head. “I may be completely off the mark here, but my guess is that you left a comfortable home with a daughter and a husband who love you to prove something to yourself.”
“You’re partially right,” I admit, hedging. “I wanted to be an Egyptologist ever since I was little, and I fucked that up.”
“There’s a host of things I wanted when I was a child that never came to pass,” Wyatt counters.
I give him a sympathetic glance. “Friends?”
He whacks me on the shoulder. “No. But…French fries.”
“You never had French fries?”
“Not the kind you get from a drive-through,” Wyatt says. “Mine were pomme frites. And I wanted the kind of birthday cake with little sprinkles in the batter.”
“Funfetti?”
His face lights up. “Yes. I saw it once on a television show.”
