"Understood."
Parker sets a duffel on the floor. Hat back on his head. He nods at me one more time, at Hawk.
"Hawk. You need anything."
"Radio."
"You call."
"I will."
Parker leaves. The door closes. The ignition turns over. The headlights swing back down the road and disappear.
Silence.
I realize I'm shaking.
Not bad. A fine tremor in my hands that I didn't have five minutes ago. Adrenaline coming back out of my body the way it always does. Late. Hard. I'm used to it.
"Hey."
Hawk is crouched in front of me again. His hand covers both of mine where they're gripping the notebook too tight. His palm is warm and rough, stopping the tremor the way nothing else would.
"You're okay."
"I know."
"Say it."
"I'm okay."
He studies my face. Whatever he sees there must satisfy him, because he stands and crosses to the kitchen and comes back with a glass of water and two ibuprofen.
"Take these. Then you're transferring that data. Then you're sleeping."
"Yes sir."
His mouth pulls at the corner. He doesn't quite smile. He doesn't quite not.
I take the pills. I take the laptop. I sit at his kitchen table with my ankle propped on a second chair and I log into my cloud backup and I transfer three hundred and seventeen megabytes of data I nearly died for to a server some woman at the Nevada Attorney General's office set up for me. It takes twelve minutes. Hawk sits across from me the whole time and cleans his rifle.
He doesn't hover. He doesn't watch the screen. He trusts me to do my work. It's the most attractive thing he's done all dayand that's saying something because earlier he carried a log up from the shed over one shoulder and I made a noise I refuse to examine.
"Done."
"Good."
"I should sleep."
"You should."
Neither of us moves.
The lamp by the couch is low. The fire is low. Ghost is asleep on the rug. The whole cabin has gone the color of amber and quiet.
Hawk sets the rifle down.
"Come here."
