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“I asked first.”

“You did.”

His mouth twitched.

I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t turn out to be clever at this. It would be an unpleasant surprise.”

“Too late to put that in the limits?”

I picked up the pen and pretended to consider it.

He laughed, and the sound loosened the room.

The bunkhouse had warmed while we sat there. Morning sun reached the table now, laying a bright strip across his wrist and the coffee ring near his elbow. Behind him, the hot plate stood beside a mismatched stack of dishes. His mattress remained on the floor.

He had given me the bed frame.

I had noticed that before. I hadn’t quite permitted myself to consider it.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

He waited.

I tapped the page. “I’m trying to understand what you’re offering.”

“Not a curriculum.”

“Good. Your handwriting would be a barrier.”

“Serious accessibility issue.”

I smiled despite myself.

He rested his forearms on the table, careful not to crowd the paper.

“Maybe we take a walk and you don’t inspect anything. Maybe we listen to music you actually pick instead of whatever happens to be on. Maybe you laugh at something without checking whether you’ve got time.”

My eyes dropped.

The hose. The cold water inside my boots. My ruined notes lying on the ground while I made a sound I hadn’t heard from myself in years.

I remembered the exact moment I had noticed I was happy.

I also remembered how quickly I had become afraid of it.

“You mean the field,” I said.

“Partly.”

“My clipboard drowned.”

“I remember. Brave little thing.”

“Most of the notes were recoverable.”

“Glad we avoided a funeral.”