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She laughs, the sound bright in the woods, and I can’t hush her, not when it’s such vibrant happiness, but she does it herself, slapping her hand over her mouth and apologizing with her eyes. “Nothing that mattered,” she whispers, reassuring me when she’s the one who was insulted. “People lash out sometimes, especially when they’re hurting, physically or mentally. They shouldn’t do it, but when you’re in that much pain, spreading it around makes it duller somehow. Sometimes, because it means you’re not alone—like misery loves company—or sometimes, because releasing that pain gets it out of your heart. Like popping a pimple—bloosh.” She flicks her hands like a release of infection, which is a pretty accurate, if not gross, description of stored-up emotional pain.
She’s been hurt, that much is obvious. But she’s handled it herself and uses it to see the best in others. It’s an enviable and inspiring trait. One I don’t share. People who hurt me get hurt right back. Exponentially.
“Sounds good for the hurter, but not for the hurt-ee,” I reply, lowering the camera and peering at her fully. She’s distracting me, which is dangerous, but I’m not sure I care.
She smiles as though that’s perfectly acceptable. “I can handle it.” But then something draws her attention and her eyes jump to some point above me. “That was an owl! I thought they only flew around at night, but it was right there. Look!”
One look toward the cabin tells me that Mr. Webster and the woman are still sitting on the couch, chatting away. I should pay attention to them. I’m getting paid to do so, after all, but the truth is . . . I can’t deny her. I flip over to my back, and she snuggles into my side, getting our faces close together so she can point at an angle I can see. I follow to where her finger is indicating and see a brown-gray owl perched on a branch. But after a quick glance, my eyes are drawn to Janey.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she says on a wispy breath. She jumps from philosophical enlightenment to childlike excitement over a bird in a whiplash second.
Remembering what she said, I lift the camera to take a few shots of the owl. “Now I’ve got pictures of birds doing birdy things.”
She smiles. I don’t see it so much as feel it in the air around us. The stupid picture makes her happy.
I give myself two minutes to enjoy the moment, vowing to get back to surveillance when my internal alarm goes off. But I don’t make it thirty seconds until Janey’s constant wiggling and squirming is driving me mad.
Is she trying to hump my leg? At that angle?
“What the hell are you doing?”
“My back hurts,” she admits as she does the worm dance in the dirt like an actual, literal worm.
I’ll admit to irritation. I’m working, she interrupted, and now, she’s whining? I also can’t let her walk back to the cabin by herself. Not because of bears, which Anderson reassured me haven’t roamed these woods in decades but provide an exciting tagline on ads, but because the terrain is rough. I’m surprised—and fine, a little impressed—that she got out here on her own in the first place. But I can’t knowingly send her back alone.
I should stay here, watch my target all day if need be, but if I can’t, I can still work. I’ll get Janey back to the cabin and call the office for more research on Mr. Webster and this not-a-mistress guest he’s secretly hosting.
My brain doesn’t make the decision to do so, but my body does, and I move to get up, resting on my knees with my butt on my heels, instinctually staying close to the shadows of the tree I’m calling my hunting blind to preserve its integrity as a safe surveillance spot.
I stash my gear once again, knowing I’ll have to come back, and offer Janey a hand as I stand. Independent as she is, and probably aware of my annoyance, given the hurt look in her eyes, Janey ignores my offer and moves to stand on her own. Except . . .
“Don’t move,” I snap sharply, and her eyes dart to me in confusion. “That’s poison ivy,” I explain, pointing at the three-lobed bush she’s reaching for. “Are you allergic?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure I’ve ever been exposed. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not exactly the outdoorsy type. Oh, except for that one time I went camping. I couldn’t have been more than eight or nine? I was a Girl Scout, troop 481, so I probably learned what poison ivy looks like, but I can’t remember. Does it have three leaves? Or four?” She’s looking around at the various greenery around her, counting leaves. “I probably didn’t get that Scout patch, but I know I got one for pizza making and one for horse care when we went to the stables and I brushed a pony’s mane. I think her name was Powder. And also, the pizza making was putting our pepperoni Lunchables in the toaster oven, so I’m not sure that actually counts.”
