Not enough.
Evelyn supported him from the left side while he used a broken branch as a crude crutch.
He was heavier than he looked.
Or maybe she was older than she admitted.
Halfway to the SUV, he stumbled.
Evelyn caught him.
His arm came around her shoulders.
Their faces ended up inches apart.
Both stopped.
Not romantic.
Not yet.
Pain and dust and heat were not romantic.
Still, something passed.
Recognition perhaps.
Not of each other.
Of loneliness.
Daniel looked away first.
“Sorry.”
“You’re injured.”
“That doesn’t make you furniture.”
Evelyn almost smiled.
They reached the SUV.
She lowered the rear seats.
Built a bed from blankets.
Daniel stared.
“You’re putting me in the cargo area?”
“You wanted secrecy.”
“This feels undignified.”
“Try being pinned under a mountain.”
“That was more heroic.”
“No.”
“It wasn’t.”
He climbed in with difficulty.
Evelyn closed the hatch.
Before she reached the driver’s door, an engine sounded in the distance.
Daniel’s hand slapped the rear window.
“Evelyn.”
She turned.
Dark pickup.
Far away.
Coming fast.
Her stomach tightened.
She got behind the wheel.
The truck grew larger in the mirror.
Daniel’s voice came from behind her.
“Drive.”
Evelyn did.
The SUV kicked gravel into the air.
She entered the highway.
The pickup appeared around the bend just as she accelerated.
“Are they following?” Daniel asked.
Evelyn watched the mirror.
The truck slowed near the crash site.
“They stopped.”
“Good.”
“For now.”
She drove.
Five miles.
Ten.
No truck.
Evelyn’s shoulders remained tight.
Daniel lay in the back watching the ceiling.
“Where are we going?”
“My house.”
“You live alone?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone expecting you?”
“No.”
“Family?”
“A daughter in Oregon.”
“Does she call?”
“Too often.”
“That’s good.”
“You don’t have children?”
Daniel went quiet.
Evelyn saw his reflection in the mirror.
“That was rude.”
“No.”
He looked toward the window.
“I had a son.”
Had.
Evelyn understood.
She did not ask.
The house stood twelve miles down a county road, then another four along an unmarked gravel lane.
Small.
Stone and cedar.
Built against a low ridge where juniper trees broke the wind.
Evelyn had lived there for thirty-one years.
First with her husband.
Then alone.
The garage still held his tools.
His coat still hung behind one door though he had been dead six years.
She had stopped pretending she would remove it.
Daniel looked through the rear window as they approached.
“Remote.”
“That was the idea.”
“Neighbors?”
“Closest house is three miles.”
“Cameras?”
“Front gate.”
“Internet?”
“Yes.”
Daniel’s expression tightened.
“Disconnect it.”
Evelyn parked.
“No.”
“Evelyn.”
“I am not dismantling my life because a stranger in my trunk says so.”
“Cargo area.”
“Do not improve the wording.”
He almost laughed.
Then winced again.
She helped him inside.
The living room contained books, plants, an old piano nobody played, and three photographs on the mantel.
One showed Evelyn younger beside a tall man with reddish-brown hair.
Daniel looked.
“Husband?”
“Yes.”
“James.”
“He died six years ago.”