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I’m going to have to go down the narrow wooden staircase that brought me up here and try to find Joan. Ask if she’s got something I can take.
I hope she’s not asleep already.
When I shift to my side, preparing to move, Frankie says, “Caroline?”
I freeze. In front of me, there are bare two-by-fours with wiring stapled to them. A water stain, dark at the edges, bowed plywood in the middle. A small square window and the moon outside, nearly full.
Behind me, there’s a little girl whose father is dead.
West wanted me here, with her. But what did he want me to say?
“Yeah?”
“Do you think he’ll leave again?”
“Who, West?”
“Yeah.”
I turn toward her and prop myself up on one elbow.
Her sleeping bag is close enough to mine that I can see it rise and fall with her breath.
Hers is My Little Pony. Mine’s Spider-Man.
Her eyes are so big in the dim lighting. She’s got her mother’s brown eyes and sharp chin, but the rest of her is West—cheekbones like wings, eyebrows that come to a peak, a wide mouth, and thick, dark hair. She’s beautiful and so young, her front teeth a little too big for her face.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly.
“But what do you think?”
“I think … I guess he’ll do whatever he decides is best.”
She’s quiet. Then, “Did he ask you to come?”
“No.”
“Why did you, then?”
“I thought … I could help.”
She rises to her elbow, mirroring my position. “What can you do?”
“Not much,” I admit. “Keep you company, if you want me to.”
“Can I tell you something?” she asks.
No. Don’t tell me anything. I don’t know what I’m doing. But that’s just cowardice. I’ve learned to ignore it. “Sure.”
“Mom told them I wasn’t there. But I was. I saw what happened.” Her eyes gleam, wet. “I saw.”
“Do you want to … talk about it?”
She shakes her head. Her tears brim over.
I disentangle my arms from the sleeping bag and put them around her, pulling her close and rubbing her thin small shoulders. “Shh,” I say to this shaking girl. “Shh, shh, it’ll be all right.”
I have no idea if it will.
