"He won't. Not unless he's tracking us with dogs, and he's not."
"You sound sure."
"I'm sure because if he had dogs we'd have heard them."
She breathes out.
I crouch down in front of her because she's sitting and I want her eyes on me.
"Hey."
She looks at me.
"You did good."
A small thing happens in her face. A tiny crack I've been watching for since yesterday afternoon. Her mouth wobbles for a half second. She pulls it back in.
"Don't do that," she says.
"Do what."
"Be nice to me right now. I'll fall apart."
"Fall apart. I've got you."
She shakes her head. Looks at the ceiling. Blinks hard. Doesn't let a single tear go.
"I'm not going to cry in a hunting shack, Mercer."
"Nobody's scoring you."
"I'm scoring me."
I don't move. Don't touch her. Because if I put my hand on her knee right now it doesn't stop at her knee, and neither one of us has the bandwidth for what that would start.
She pulls herself together in about eight seconds flat. Wipes the corner of her eye with the pad of her thumb. Straightens her shoulders.
"Okay. What do we do for thirty minutes."
"You sit. I watch the window."
"That's boring."
"It's supposed to be boring."
"Tell me about yourself."
"No."
"Tell me one thing about yourself."
I take my position at the window. Ease the plastic flap back a half inch. Scan.
"One thing."
"One thing."
"I grew up in Minnesota."
