Wallace insisted on fetching us, something I cringed at agreeing to because, again, I should be drawing better boundaries with him. But I don’t need the cost of an Uber right now.
I’ve just texted him to let him know we’ll be out soon when someone behind me says, “Well, hey, it’s you.”
I whip around to see a tall bearded man standing much too close. I must appear confused because he says, “From the hotel bar?”
When I take a step back, my calf hits the side of the conveyor. I teeter on the brink of pitching backward.
He grabs my arm to stop my fall. “Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to startle—”
My rusty cop training rocks me free of his attempted grasp. I take a ready stance, feet shoulder-width apart. My hand has even gone to my waist for the ghost of my utility belt, a reflex from a different chapter of my life.
“You were on my flight?” I say, a cold dread settling in my belly.
“News to me, too.”
What are the chances?
“This must be”—he clears his throat into his fist—“a little weird for you, with what’s going on. Truly, I’m sorry for that.”
“You live—where?” I say.
“I write forRolling Stone. We’re doing a piece on Glacier Park and climate change. You know, shrinking glaciers, less snow, less water, threatened species, bark beetle infestations, megafires ...”
“So not, what did you call it? Crime advocacy.” My tone is accusatory.
He offers a sheepish, closed-lip smile.
“Usually, another writer has the nature beat, but he broke his femur. I was next in line, and it’s not like I haven’t covered nature before. I’ve published inOutside MagazineandNat Geo. Wolverines in Glacier and on the GNP’s designation as the first transboundary Dark Sky Park in the world. Plus, I have work on the reservations up here that relates to crime advocacy.”
He sounds legit, but this so-called coincidence has me on very high alert. I’ll check online to see if his writing credits are real. I’m still trying to get my heart to slow back down and can’t think of how to respond.
“What brings you here?” he asks.
“Sorry, what’s your name?”
“Jeremy Fisher.” He tilts his head, examining me. “You okay?”
I’ve gone pale. I can feel it. And I hate that I might appear vulnerable. “I’m good.”
“Again, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“Look, I’d love to get your name and number to interview you about what it feels like to, you know”—he runs a hand through his longish, wavy hair—“to resemble ...”
He doesn’t finish, like he doesn’t want to offend me.
“One of the drawings?” I ask.
A half grin says he knows the request is sleazy.
I shake my head. “Not happening.”
“No?”
His eyes are soft brown. Not teasing. “If I was in your shoes, I wouldn’t give out my name, either.”
Luckily, Jeremy Fisher’s bag is one of the first two down the chute. It’s black, rounded, and converts to a backpack. As he pulls it from the conveyor belt, I notice the tag. No name, just a telephone number.
