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I remembered seeing Julie post a drawing a few days prior that showed a boy high in a tree.

There was a longer pause this time.

Hudson: He does.

Sloane: His tree picture was beautiful.

Hudson: He’d like hearing that.

I wanted to ask why Hudson’s answers felt more careful when he discussed Caldwell, but the question seemed too personal.

Sloane: Caldwell might have a future in graphic design like me.

Crap, I’d mentioned my profession before thinking. Again, I immediately regretted it. Surely the family knew what Loany did for a living. And what were the chances that she was also a graphic designer?

I was surely fucked.

Hudson: Maybe. Great job on that garage sale flyer, by the way. You’re really talented.

Sloane: Oh, thanks. I appreciate that.

Instead of giving myself the opportunity to accidentally expose myself as an imposter again, I asked whether Byron understood the homework now. Hudson sent a photograph of the completed page. The edge of a hand appeared in the frame, broad fingers holding the paper against a wooden table.

That was the first physical piece of him I’d seen close up and in focus.

A hand. It shouldn’t have meant anything, shouldn’t have caused a flutter inside me to realize that the hand looked like it belonged to someone younger than I’d pegged Hudson.

My stomach reacted anyway.

Ridiculous.

Hudson: He says he understood it before either of us interfered.

Sloane: Of course he did.

Hudson: He would also like you to know he could defeat both of us physically if it came down to it.

Sloane: Is that part of the math curriculum?

Hudson: It is in this house.

I laughed quietly at my desk.

In the wake of this camaraderie, the client email open on my monitor became less irritating. We texted back and forth for another forty minutes, discussing bad school assignments and the fact that Hudson carried spare jumper cables for other people. He claimed this was normal. I told him it was evidence of a hero complex. He said he preferred competent preparedness. I pointed out that competent people were often the first ones drafted into everyone else’s disasters.

When we said goodbye, I sat looking at the screen with an embarrassing smile on my face. Butterflies had taken up residence beneath my ribs, which was completely absurd.

I didn’t know this man. I didn’t know what he looked like, how tall he was, whether he chewed loudly, or if he used decorative pillows for their intended purpose. He could have terrible teeth. He could own a sword for non-historical reasons. He could say expresso, God forbid.

None of that stopped me from checking our private chat before bed. When I woke up. In far too many of my free moments.

Over the following week, messages accumulated.

Hudson sent me a photograph of the tiny gear key chain Trevor had made for him. I sent him a client logo featuring an anatomically confusing bird. He asked whether I had eaten lunch one afternoon after I mentioned working through it. I lied and said yes, then felt guilty enough to make toast.

Patty sent me fan art and invited me into an argument about fictional villains.

THE PACK remained active from morning until night.