Page 101 of The Fire Line

“That is clearly you.”

“Could be anybody.”

Nell had one arm around his shoulders, holding him in place as though she had captured him immediately before he escaped.

“I thought she was older,” Jay said.

“Barely a year.”

“That is not generally how twins work.”

“Didn’t matter,” Della said. “They did everything together. By the time Harris could walk, Nell had decided he belonged to her.”

Harris put the photograph back. “We hated being called the twins.”

“You hated it when you were thirteen. Before that, you adored it.”

Jay looked at him. Harris could feel the question he did not ask: what it meant to lose someone who had occupied the position of sister, twin, and closest friend all at once.

Della’s voice softened. “They even got sick together. Nell would come down with something, and Harris would be coughing the next morning whether he’d been near her or not.”

“Ma.”

“What?”

“Enough.”

The word was not sharp, but she stopped. Priya reached for the folder of original location notes, and the conversation returned to work without anybody pretending the shift had happened naturally.

The field notebook waited near the bottom of the second box.

Its brown leather cover had darkened at the corners. Black tape repaired one edge, and a pale coffee ring marked the front. Harris recognized it before Della placed it in front of him.

“Thought that was in her desk.”

“It was.”

“You use it?”

“No.” Della rested her hand beside it. “I couldn’t decide where it belonged.”

Harris ran his thumb across the worn edge before opening it.

Pasture boundaries. Medication notes. Supply lists. Phone numbers and names of horses beside dates. Nell’s thoughts occupied every available margin.

Ask Evan about lodge invoices.

Dad wrong about east spring—again.

Call Della before she hears from someone else.

Halfway down a list of water-line repairs, she had written:

ASK HARRIS. HE KNOWS.

Beneath it, smaller:

If he says he doesn’t, ask again.