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“Expensive little bastards,” I muttered.

Her mouth moved.

Barely.

But enough that I knew she’d heard.

I took off the second boot and set both upright beside the wall. Creek stains still marked the toes. She had cleaned them again.

Of course she had.

Her socks were plain gray. One had twisted at the toe.

I left it alone.

There had to be a point where looking after somebody stopped meaning finding every last thing you could fix.

I drew the blanket up over her legs.

She rolled onto her side before I had it over her shoulder, one hand folding beneath her cheek.

“Too warm?” I asked.

“No.”

I pulled it the rest of the way.

Her eyes were closed.

The lamp on the crate wasn’t on. Enough light came from the main room that she wouldn’t wake in a strange dark.

I checked the water glass. Fresh enough. Within reach.

Then I stood there with my hands hanging stupidly at my sides.

Nothing else needed doing.

That was the trouble.

I wanted there to be another thing. Something practical I could take apart and complete. A hook. A lamp. A stubborn boot.

Not because she needed it.

Because I wasn’t ready for the moment to be finished.

That made me step back.

I left the door open and went into the main room.

Her paperwork lay where we’d left it. The tiny pen mark curved off the end of a figure. Her unfinished sentence stayed in my head with the quiet sound she’d made against my shoulder.

I straightened the pages.

Put a clean sheet over them so nothing got spilled on the work.

Then I stopped touching things.

The bunkhouse was too small.