Page 29 of Her Wicker Guardian

Blair stares. “Did his ribs just talk?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Rachel, I’m begging you to identify the portion of this situation that isn’t weird.”

He barely seems to hear us. His hand remains pressed to his side, and he’s listening with such complete concentration that even Blair falls quiet.

Laura looks at me. “He must have heard it too.”

Obviously he heard the sound. That isn’t what she means.

“Locke?” I say.

His gaze comes straight to mine.

I point toward him. “Locke?”

He looks down at his own hand, then back at me. “Locke.”

The word comes from his mouth this time, rough but unmistakable. Nobody speaks while I repeat it more softly.

“Locke.”

His hand moves from his side to the center of his chest. “Locke.”

A chill runs over my arms. My fingers flex around the mug, and for a second I can only look at him standing there with his hand over his chest.

We didn’t name him. The name was already there.

Blair stares at him with all humor gone. “Okay. That one I’d like entered into evidence.”

“Can we not litigate the wicker man yet?”

“Reluctantly.”

Locke says his name again without anyone prompting him. “Locke.”

Maybe later we’ll learn that the sound means something else. Maybe there’s an explanation none of us can imagine yet. Right now, he says it like it belongs to him, and that’s enough.

Shannon looks toward me. “Well, at least we can stop calling him the Wicker Man.”

“Please.”

Janet smiles. “Locke.”

He turns toward her. The yard feels different with a name in it. He’s still impossible, still unknown, and we still have no idea what happens between now and Monday morning, never mind before lunch, but he has a name. At least the universe has decided to clarify one thing.

I check the time and swear under my breath. “I have to get ready.”

The Blue Plate is waiting for me. Saturday lunch. Refill coffee. Carry plates. Smile at people who think the strangest thing in my life is whether we’re out of pie.

Shannon closes the iPad case. “Go. I’ve got him.”

I look at Locke. He’s adjusting the borrowed T-shirt, working the fabric carefully over the uneven weave of his body. A small green leaf near the base of his throat has opened farther since I first saw him in the sun. He catches me looking.

I should go inside, but instead I stand there another second. “Locke.” His head comes up.

I touch my chest. “Rachel.”