“Sullivan.”
A voice. Close. Small.
Not a man’s voice.
Tess.
Tess.
“Sullivan, hey. Hey.You’reon a porch.You’rein Hollow Peak. Thecabin’sat your back, and the wind’s coming east, andit’sthree p.m. on a Thursday.”
Her voice is calm.
“In for four,” she says. “Hold for four. Out for four. You’re not alone. You don’t have to come back fast. I’m just here.”
It’sthe four-count I used to give other men. The roles have flipped.Ican’tmove yet, but I can hearher.
I close my eyes.
I breathe in for four because she’s asking. Hold for four. Out for four.
A secondtime. A third.
The nightmare scene recedes.
The porch comes back: the worn pine of the rail under my hand, the mugI’msomehow still holding, the smell of woodsmoke from the chimney, the citrus aroma of orange marmalade from the toast we ate.
Tess is sitting on the step.
Shehasn’tleft me, butshehasn’tcome closer.She’sput her own coffee mug down and turned her body slightly toward me, hands open and resting on her knees, her face calm in the soft, awful way of peoplewho’vebeen on porches with people in this state before.
She’snot afraidofme.
She’s afraidforme.
There’sa difference, and the knowledge sinks deep into my chest.
“I’m—”My voice is like sand.“I’m here.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be.”
I close my eyes.“It was a hawk.”
“Yes.”
“Twohawks. Calling each other.”
“Yeah.”She nods slowly.“And a branch. And a wind shift. I almost startled too.”
She says it kindly, and we both knowit’snot the same.
“Can I ask,”she says, as carefully as someone walking on ice,“how long have you been doing the four-count?”
“Four years.”
