Page 22 of Silent Shadows

The middle section of the Mystery Machine narrows into a long aisle lined with bunks on either side—three stacked into the wall to the left, three to the right.

Taylor gestures proudly. “Welcome to your bedroom.”

It’s all the most unconventional kind of cozy. It’s not luxurious—no one is confusing this for a boutique hotel. But every bunk has clearly been claimed and transformed into something personal, something lived in. Soft lighting strips run beneath the frames, casting everything in warm amber instead of harsh white. Curtains hang over each opening for privacy, clipped back for now so I can see inside.

The top left bunk is unmistakably Taylor’s. Color explodes out of it—patterned blankets, mismatched pillows, crystals and a tiny disco ball hanging from command hooks, a faded bandana tied around the base of a reading light. Polaroids and postcards are taped to the wall.

“This feels like your vibe,” I say.

“You’re picking up what I’m putting down, then?” She smiles.

Under it, the middle bunk is neat in a way that makes sense. Maya’s, obviously. Neutral blanket. A tidy stack of books on a corner shelf. Chargers wrapped with Velcro ties.

Taylor points upward as if gesturing to another planet, not five inches above her head. “That’s you. Right across from me!”

I look up.

My bunk sits on the top right, tucked close to the ceiling with a small ladder bolted into the wall beside it. There’s fresh bedding folded neatly inside—dark green comforter, soft cream blanket, actual pillows instead of sad travel ones.

“Oh,” I say, surprised. “That’s… nicer than expected.”

Taylor grins. “People always think this thing is gonna feel sad and crunchy. But we live here almost all year. We’re not trying to suffer.”

I climb up two rungs of the ladder, peeking inside. It’s smaller than my bed at home, obviously, but once I’m in it feels cocoon-like. The walls are lined with soft fabric panels instead of exposed RV siding, and someone added a tiny battery-powered lantern hanging from a hook. There’s a charging port. A little net for books or headphones. Enough room to stretch out without feeling trapped.

“It’s kinda cute,” I admit.

“Long nights hit different when you’ve got emotional support blankets.”

I glance down the aisle. “Who’s below me?”

“Miles.”

Of course he is.

I lean over, looking into the bunk beneath mine.

To my surprise, it’s almost normal. Navy blanket. One decent pillow. Books shoved into a side pocket alongside weatherproof notebooks and what appears to be three different field guides. There’s a tiny clip-on fan mounted beside the bed and four charging cables organized with alarming precision.

And taped neatly to the wall, a tiny photo strip. I can’t make out details from here. Just flashes of two smiling adults with dark hair and two boys, the smaller one looking suspiciously like a young Miles.

I try to ignore the shift in my chest.

“Wow,” I say, my tone light as I climb back down. “He really does live like a camp counselor.”

Taylor laughs. “Oh, for sure. You should see his storage bins. He labels everything.”

“That tracks.”

“He also cooks.”

“That’s more surprising.”

“He made us homemade chicken parm in the middle of Washington once,” she says reverently. “Changed my life.”

“In here?” I ask incredulously.

“Yep! His competencies are surprisingly diverse,” she agrees. “Don’t tell him I said that.”