Page 89 of Her Wicker Guardian

That’s all. No great threshold moment, no argument with myself about whether I’m safe with him inside. I thought there might be, but I’m far more worried about the strangers outside than the wicker man standing in my kitchen.

“Come on,” I say. “I’ll show you your luxurious accommodations.”

The couch is not luxurious. It’s a small brown sectional I bought because it fit the room and was on sale, and Locke looks enormous beside it.

“You’re going to have to fold yourself.”

“I fold.”

“Maybe, but it doesn’t sound comfortable.”

I pull a pillow from a side chair and put it where his head would go if he decides to lie down. Then I take the spare blanket from the basket near the stairs and drape it over the back of the couch.

Locke watches me. “I do not need that.”

“I know.”

“You said the house is warm.”

“It is.”

“Then why the blanket?”

“Because people who sleep on my couch get a blanket.”

He looks from the blanket to me. “Even if they do not need one.”

“Especially then.”

“I do not understand.”

“That’s fine. You still get one.”

He runs two fingers over the edge. “Soft.”

“See? Already worth it.”

Locke sits carefully, and the couch gives under his weight. His attention moves to the television across the room.

“Movies,” he says. “The Iron Giant.”

It takes me a second to remember the recommendation from earlier. “You remembered the title?”

“Yes.”

I smile. “Okay. Let’s see if I can find it.”

I find the remote and sit beside him long enough to turn on the television. The streaming menu appears, and Locke studies it until he looks at me.

“There are words.”

“Yes.”

“I cannot read them.”

He says it without embarrassment, which makes me glad I didn’t hand him the remote and expect him to navigate a screen full of words. “I’ll handle the menus.”

It takes two apps and one muttered complaint before I find it. Locke watches everything I do, including every button I press.