He squinted. Took in my wet hair, my soaked pant legs, my bandaged dignity. Grinned.
"Yeah, I see that," he said. "Thanks for the heads up."
He came toward me, taking the left like I'd told him to, and almost slipped, anyway, on a rock I knew was angled mean. He caught himself on the stick and laughed at himself in a way that wasn't quite a laugh.
"Cleaner than my run," I called. "Better than I did."
He chuckled—the involuntary chuckle of a man who liked being told he'd done a thing well. He waded the last few feet to the edge of my slab and stopped, breathing hard, pretending he wasn't. He pulled out a water bottle—stainless steel, monogrammed—and took a long pull.
"This is some hike," he said.
"Best one in the park, in my book."
He nodded like he was conferring approval on the canyon. "I've done harder."
"Oh yeah?"
"Angels Landing. Did it Tuesday. Wasn't half what they say it is."
"The chains and all?" I asked.
"Not bad."
I tipped my chin up, gave him my most rueful smile. "Heights almost got me on that one. Don't tell anyone. Bad for the brand."
The lie cost me nothing. Heights had never bothered me. I'd jumped out of more aircraft than most men had flown on. But Davari needed to be the better man right now. Needed it like a glass of water on a hot day. I gave it to him.
He smiled. The smile of a man whose ego had been fed exactly the way his ego liked to be fed.
"It's not for everyone," he said magnanimously.
"No, sir."
He stretched—long, theatrical, the stretching of a man who'd recently learned how to stretch and wanted you to see he was doing it. I watched him the way I'd watched men in cafés in Tbilisi and warehouses in Karachi and a bar once in Caracas where the only way out had been a window and a fire escape. I clocked the new tightness in his core, the loose skin still holding on to the memory of the man he'd been a year ago. He'd made progress. I'd give him that. The fitness thing was new, but he was working it.
"You hiking solo?" he asked.
"Most days. You?"
"Driver's at the lot. Said he didn’t want to get wet."
"Smart."
"He's reading a book."
"He's lucky."
His eyes drifted to the open Ziploc on the rock beside me. The second sandwich. The third. I'd packed five. I'd eaten one slow.
I didn't offer right away.
I let him look.
"You bring lunch?" I asked, casual.
He patted his pack. "Trail mix. Protein bars."
"Tree hugger food."
