Page 26

"Fourteen," he says, hoarsely. "Fourteen steps."

I don't answer. I knock three times on the wall behind our heads. Soft, with my knuckle. A sound cracks out of him that's halfway between a laugh and a sob.

"You're in the room," he says.

"Yes."

"It doesn't—"

"I know."

I wait. The wall is cool under my hand. His breathing slows, a ragged breath at a time, until it's merely uneven. Then, at last, steady. He turns and gathers me in. I go, my cheek against his chest, his arm clamped tight around my ribs as if I were the one thing he intended to keep when the building fell.

I feel him shiver once, hard.

"Stay," he says, into my hair.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Thank you."

He doesn't say anything else. Neither do I. I trace the scar on his forearm with one finger, slow and light, until his hand goes slack on my back and he sleeps.

I lie awake in the gray. The window turns the color of dishwater, then of pearl. A bird starts up somewhere in the maples, thin and uncertain. The whole room smells of him and me and lamplight.

I slip out from under his arm. He makes a soft sound but doesn't wake. I find his shirt on the floor and pull it on, the fabric soft and smelling of cedar. In the kitchen, I fill two glasses with water and dampen a clean cloth.

When I come back, he's still asleep on his side, one arm thrown across the space where I was. I set the glasses on the nightstand. I sit on the edge of the bed, and I wipe the smudged mascara from under my own eyes, the shadow I can feel dried there from the bridge. Then I fold the cloth and set it aside.

He stirs. His eyes open, unfocused, and find me.

"You left," he says, rough with sleep.

"I'm here. I got water."

He reaches for me. I go. He pulls me down against him, his hand sliding up under the shirt, warm on my ribs.

"You've got wax," I say. "In your hair. From the lantern."

"Don't care."

"I do." I pick up the cloth. "Hold still."

He closes his eyes. I wipe his temple, the side of his neck, the wax still clinging from the lantern walk. His breathing evens out. He doesn't say anything, but his hand on my ribs tightens once.

"We're a mess," I whisper.

"I know." He pulls me down. "Go to sleep, Hollis."

I curl against him. The window is lighter now. I close my eyes. Just before I slip under, I feel his thumb trace a slow circle on my ribs, over and over, like he's memorizing the shape of me.

On the nightstand, his phone buzzes once against the wood. A short hard vibration that sounds like a door opening somewhere far away. The screen glows white and goes dark.

I don't look at it. I put my hand over his heart, and I hold very still, and I count.

Chapter 6 — Ben

The ringing in my left ear is gone.