Page 69 of Secret Paths

“Among other things,” I say.

Hunter is quiet for a moment.

Bernard, who has been leaning against Hunter’s boot with the solemn exhaustion of a dog who has crossed several continents rather than one damp field, chooses that exact second to fart.

It is not loud.

It does not need to be.

Hunter closes his eyes. “Christ.”

Bernard gazes out over the quarry, blameless.

The two women on the path turn at the same time, then very politely discover something fascinating in the opposite direction.

I cover my mouth with the back of my hand.

Hunter points at me. “Do not laugh.”

“I am not.”

“You are shaking.”

“I am grieving for the clean air.”

Bernard sighs and settles more heavily against his leg.

For a moment, the tension loosens.

Then Hunter looks back at me. “It is not just the job, though.”

I take a bite of flapjack. It is dry enough to absorb shame.

Hunter waits.

That is one of his worst qualities. He knows when silence will do more damage than questions.

“You are distracted,” he says at last. “But not miserable. That is new.”

“That sounds insulting.”

“It is not.” He studies me. “When the bank news first hit, I thought you would either pretend you did not care or make some grand decision purely to prove you were fine. You have not.”

“Still time.”

“Maybe.” His expression softens. “But you are steadier than I expected.”

I say nothing.

“You have talked to someone.”

It is not a question.

I think of Mandy’s kitchen. Her steady eyes. Who are you embarrassed for?

I think of her saying quieter did not mean smaller.

I think of her in bed afterwards, watching me as if she had seen through every ridiculous defence I had and decided to stay anyway.