Boone turns back to me. He looks at my wet socks, my muddy legs, my trembling hands. His jaw works.
“You’re going to get sick,” he says. “And then who will take care of the dog? Hmm? Use your head, Saramaria.”
“I was using my head!” I shout. “I was trying to save him!”
“And you were going to pass out in a ditch and I was going to have to carry both of you back,” he yells back.
We stare at each other, chests heaving, the fire crackling between us.
The anger radiates off him, but underneath it, I smell it. Even through the rain and the mud, I smell it. Rosemary and citrus and mint. It makes my head spin.
I clutch the blanket around myself, trying to stop the shivering.
“Find him,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “Please. Just find him.”
Boone’s face changes. The anger cracks, revealing something raw underneath. He looks at Rhett.
“I’m going,” Boone says. “Keep her here. Don’t let her leave.”
“I won’t,” Rhett says.
Boone turns to the door. He grabs his coat from the hook, shrugging it on.
“Boone,” I say.
He pauses, his hand on the doorknob.
“The culvert,” I say softly. “Blue was looking at the culvert.”
He nods once.
“I’ll check it,” he says.
He opens the door and vanishes into the dark.
Rhett
Knox is already moving, grabbing his coat from the hook before Boone even has the door closed. The floorboards groan under his boots as he strides toward the exit.
“I’ll give him a hand,” Knox says, not looking back. “Two sets of eyes are better than one.”
He vanishes into the night, the wind catching the door and slamming it shut with a heavy thud that seems to echo through the entire house.
Then silence settles over the living room. It’s a strange, heavy silence, filled only by the sound of the rain lashing against the glass and the fire crackling in the hearth.
I stand near the fireplace, gripping the poker until my knuckles turn white. I look at Saramaria.
She’s sitting on the edge of the sofa, exactly where Boone dumped her. The blanket Boone threw at her is pooled in her lap, forgotten. She’s staring at her hands, which are folded tightly in her lap, and her wet hair is plastered to her skull, dripping water onto the knees of her shorts. Her socks are sodden, leaving dark wet patches on the rug beneath her feet.
She’s shaking. Not just shivering, but trembling with a fine, violent vibration that I can see from across the room.
She doesn’t move. She doesn’t speak. For five minutes, maybe ten, we just exist in the same space. The only movement is the rise and fall of her chest and the occasional twitch of her fingers against the blanket.
Finally, she lifts her head. Her eyes are wide, unfocused, darting around the room as if she’s looking for an escape route that isn’t there.
“I’m all dirty,” she whispers. The words are so soft I almost miss them.
“What?” I ask, taking a step closer.
