"Somewhere I can watch the door."
Something in my chest does a tight little flip.
"You."
"Me."
"Marcus asked you."
"Marcus asked me to keep you alive for a weekend. I'm telling him the weekend got extended."
"He's not going to like that."
"He's going to live."
I look up at him. All that storm in his eyes. The gray at his temples. The beard. The flannel rolled up to his elbows again because he rolled it up this morning before he came to my door, and he hasn't rolled it back down since.
"Why," I say.
"Why what."
"Why extend the weekend."
He doesn't answer right away.
He looks at me in a way I felt before, in the office last night, in the shack at dawn, in the kitchen while I ate eggs across from him like a woman who refused to be hunted.
"You know why."
My mouth goes dry.
"Say it anyway."
"Simone."
"Say it."
His eyes drop to my mouth. Half a second. Back up.
"Because I walked this cabin two hours ago and saw his boot print on your rug and I have not been able to get my pulse under a hundred since. Because I slept three hours in twenty fourand all three of them I dreamed about the text on your phone. Because when you saidyes sirlast night I felt it in my teeth and I haven't felt anything in my teeth in six years. Because you're going to get on a plane Sunday night or Monday morning or whenever Marcus lets you, and the thought of not watching the road you take to the airport is doing something to me I didn't plan for."
I don't move.
He doesn't either.
The fire cracks.
"Okay," I say.
"Okay?"
"Okay."
"Okay what."
"Okay I'm not leaving Monday."
Something in his face shifts.
