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The window remained open.

Peepers sang by the creek. Somewhere beyond the cabin, Biscuit barked once at a thing that had probably committed no crime.

Boone's fingers combed through my damp hair.

I rested my cheek over his heart.

The woman who arrived in March had everything she owned in a truck bed.

She wore a coat too large for her and apologized to gates. She could not look a big man in the face. She believed being seen created danger and being needed created debt.

I did not hate her.

That surprised me.

For a long time, I had wanted to leave her behind. Become somebody stronger, sharper, impossible to control.

But she had been strong.

She left.

She kept driving.

She climbed out of the truck at Carrow Creek even when Boone filled the whole morning with his size.

She had carried me here.

I lifted my head.

Boone's eyes opened. "What?"

"Nothing."

His hand settled at the back of my neck. "Truth."

I smiled. "I'm happy."

He looked at me for a long time.

Then his arm tightened around my body.

"Good," he said.

Simple.

Certain.

Enough.

***

At dusk, we were two panel brackets short for the morning, and I volunteered for the loft before Boone could, because he fits up that ladder the way a piano fits up a ladder.

He handed me a flashlight without argument, which should have been my first clue that he was tired. "Third crate from the north wall."

"Very romantic."

"Bring two."