Page 107 of We Are Just Us

“I know,” Kieran said. “And I’m so, so sorry.”

“I’m kidding. Mostly.”

“I’m not. I should’ve been more careful. Should’ve made sure the fish was cooked all the way through.”

Rory reached over and took Kieran’s hand. “Stop. It happens. I’ll survive.”

“You sure about that?”

“Seventy percent sure.”

Kieran smiled. “I’ll take those odds.”

They sat there as the sun began to rise properly, painting the desert in shades of pink and gold. Mabel emerged from the tent, sniffing around cautiously, sensing something was off.

“What do you need?” Kieran asked.

“Nothing,” Rory said. “Maybe some more water. In a bit.”

“Okay.”

“And maybe you could just...stay close. For a while.”

Kieran squeezed his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Rory closed his eyes again, and Kieran watched the tension slowly ease from his face as exhaustion took over.

THIRTY-TWO

The sun was fully up when Kieran started breaking down camp.

Rory sat slumped in the camp chair, wrapped in a blanket even in the climbing heat, looking pale and hollowed out. He’d tried to stand twice—once to help with the tent, once to carry the cooler—and both times Kieran had physically steered him back to the chair.

“I can help,” Rory protested weakly.

“You can sit,” Kieran replied. “That’s how you help.”

Rory didn’t have the energy to argue.

So Kieran worked alone, methodically dismantling everything they’d set up the day before. The tent came down in pieces, poles first, then stakes, then the fabric itself, all of it folded and stuffed back into its bag with more force than finesse. He didn’t care if it was neat. He cared about getting Rory home.

Hank and Mabel had positioned themselves next to Rory’s chair and hadn’t moved since. Hank sat like a sentinel, his body pressed against Rory’s leg. Mabel lay at his feet, her head resting on her paws. Every few minutes, one of them would look up at him with those big, concerned eyes, and Rory would absently scratch behind their ears.

“Good dogs,” he murmured. “I’m okay.”

Neither of them looked convinced.

Neither was Kieran. He loaded the sleeping bags into the truck bed, then the cooler, then the camping chairs. The fire pit was already cold, the ashes scattered and buried. He double-checked the area for trash, for anything they might’ve left behind, then triple-checked because his brain needed the distraction.

Rory hadn’t thrown up again in the last hour, which Kieran was taking as a good sign. But he was still shaky, still pale, enough that he might keel over if he stood up too fast.

“You doing okay?” Kieran asked, crouching in front of him.

Rory nodded. “Better.”

“That’s a relative term.”

“I’m upright. That’s progress.”