Page 12 of Property of Bob

Anchor’s expression changed too.

Not dramatically, but just enough.

“Tomorrow.”

There was that word again. “Why not tonight?”

“He needs rest.”

“How bad is he?”

Anchor looked at Prime. Prime looked back.

I crossed my arms. “Please stop doing the silent biker communication thing and answer me.”

One of the women covered her mouth.

Anchor’s mouth twitched slightly, then he looked at me. “Someone attacked him.”

Every muscle in my body locked. “What?”

“That’s all you need tonight.”

“Bullshit.”

Prime coughed.

Anchor didn’t flinch.

“What happened?”

“He got hurt protecting someone.”

My throat tightened. Of course he did. Twenty years ago he had protected me, and apparently some things really didn’t change. “How hurt?”

Anchor hesitated. “He almost died.”

That knocked every smart remark straight out of me. I stared at him.

Nobody laughed. Nobody moved.

I suddenly didn’t care about the RV. The campground. The last six months. Any of it. “Almost?”

“He’s still here,” Anchor said. “And stubborn as ever.”

Prime snorted. “Threatened to leave the hospital today.”

My head snapped toward him. “What?”

“Against medical advice,” Prime added.

Anchor glared at him.

“What? She asked.”

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

It wasn’t because anything was funny. It was because that sounded exactly like Ashland.