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I talk for so long that I’m almost startled when he moves to get up before he disappears down the ladder. He isn’t gone long, and when he returns, he’s carrying a tray of food.
I hadn’t even realized I was hungry, but the smell of it has my stomach rumbling even before I can see what it is. At this point, I trust that anything he makes will be delicious.
We take a break and sit on the floor to eat. Ryker told me what it was, but I’d never heard of it, and honestly, it’s just some kind of meat sandwich. The flavor almost reminds me of ribs, but it's cut thin like roast beef. There’s some kind of dressing on it, too, and by the time I’m done, I’m licking my fingers clean.
When Ryker gets back on the bed, he goes straight to the books, back in the same position, but I find myself unable to sit still. I crawl through the pillows and blankets to sit at the ledge of the still-open window.
The sun is beginning to set, and while I can hear movement down in the woods, I can’t see anything, and none of it sounds quite as ominous as whatever we heard the night he found me.
Overall, it’s peaceful, and I settle in once again, talking aimlessly about myself.
It’s so warm, I’m almost uncomfortable. I roll over, hoping to find relief, but it’s useless. I must be under too many layers. Either that or one of the guys is to blame.
Shit! I fell asleep.
I bolt upright, or I try to. I’m so tangled in the blanket that I don’t get far. The second I open my eyes, I slam them shut again as I find the reason for my unusual warmth. The window has been pulled closed, but I lie right beneath it, the sun’s early morning rays streaming through to try and cook me alive.
With a groan, I wrestle myself free of the blanket and cover my eyes before rolling to the side out of the sun and directly into Ryker.
“Shit, sorry,” I mumble, still mostly asleep. My voice sounds like I haven’t used it in years, which is crazy considering how much talking I did yesterday.
On second thought, maybe it’s because of all the talking.
“Good morning,” Ryker says, pulling his eyes from the book in his lap to look at me for a moment before returning to it.
“Morning.”
I try to sound less dead, but it’s not easy. I manage to pull myself up and out of the sun, dropping back against the bookshelf next to Ryker. My eyes are still a bit fuzzy, and I rub at them, trying to clear them as I look around the room.
“Holy shit, how did you get through so many books?”
Yesterday, after we ate, he had one stack against the bookshelf. It was like his discard pile, everything he had gone through and gotten nothing from.
One stack is now four and a half, leaving only half a pile for him to go through still.
“I told you I don’t sleep,” he says, without so much as glancing up at me.
He had said that yesterday, but I’d let it go because it sounded like something he wasn’t happy about, but also because I’d thought he was being dramatic or sarcastic even.
Lyle’s the same way. He spends late hours doing all kinds of things, from homework to helping his dad with all his duties that he demands Lyle’s assistance with down at town hall. Hell, you name it, and Lyle probably does it, but how he does it all has always been the real question. He and Blair are often the first ones up. I can’t be sure who’s actually first, as I’m never awake to see, but it’s one of them. I always give him a hard time for it, calling him a robot or a zombie because it’s not like he ever goes to bed early. He’s often a night owl like the rest of us, and you’re not supposed to be both a night owl and an early morning person simultaneously. It’s supposed to be one or the other. I suspect he never gets enough sleep, only settling for enough to function and be productive and not a moment longer. He isn’t one to want to waste time, but he does, in fact, sleep.
That’s what I thought Ryker meant, but hearing him say it so offhand and looking at his book piles, I’m beginning to wonder if maybe he wasn’t telling the truth.
Is that even possible?
Better yet, how do I ask him? If he’s joking, I sound like an idiot, but if he isn’t…
Well, I can’t imagine that’s normal or good for you. This place might be different and strange, but something tells me that his not sleeping isn’t simply explained away by that.
“Find anything helpful?” I ask in an attempt to change the subject.
I want to ask him if he’s serious so badly, but I swallow the urge and try to focus on something else. Maybe even some good news, if I dare let myself hope for that.
“No.” He closes the book, and the thud of it echoes around the room. I knew better than to get my hopes up, but still, I feel them plummet with that thud.
“Nothing in the history I have access to says anything about losing connection to a beast or mentions anything that sounds remotely close to the life you described,” he tells me, and I hear the apology in his words even though it’s not spoken aloud. “Though it sounds interesting, I can see why you would want to return.”
His lips pull up in a slight smile that looks almost sad, but I’m not sure why. Is it because I want to leave or because he thinks my life sounds good? Of course, it sounds good. I purposely left out all the bad, unwilling to burden him further. Though, to be fair, even with the bad, it’s a good life—more than I ever hoped to have.
