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“He holds a grudge.”

I laugh so hard I have to lean on a tree. The squirrel chatters furiously, flicks his tail, and vanishes into the canopy. Holt brushes pine needles out of his hair with tremendous dignity, and I laugh even harder.

When I can breathe again, I wipe my eyes. “Do you think he’s done?”

“He’s never done.”

The rest of the week falls into a rhythm. We walk the south loop, testing every bridge, step, and soft spot along the way. I measure and sketch.

Holt knows the name of every plant and every type of rock. He knows where the creek floods in spring, and he points out which shortcuts the deer use.

One afternoon, we cross the creek on a line of stepping stones to check the far bank. Halfway over, my boot hits a slick of green algae, my foot shoots out from under me, and my notebook flies out of my hand.

I don’t even have time to yelp before a huge hand circles my waist. His palm is hot through my shirt, and my brain switches off.

Holt swings me over the last stones before setting me down on the far bank.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yep.” I hold up my hand. There’s a red scrape across my palm where I grabbed at the rock. “Barely bleeding.”

“Hold still.” He’s already holding a bandage.

“Where did that come from?” I ask. “Do you keep them up your sleeve?”

“Shirt pocket.” He peels off the backing and takes my wrist in his fingers. “I always carry a few.”

“Because I’m a walking hazard?”

“Because you’re fearless.” He presses the bandage over the scrape and smooths the edges down with his thumb.

My voice comes out kind of breathless. “You do realize you’re acting like you’re defusing a bomb.”

“I’m trying not to hurt you.”

His thumb rests on the inside of my wrist, right where my pulse is going crazy. I’m sure he can feel it.

Are we having a moment? It feels like a moment. Does a seven-foot orc even have moments?

Holt lets go, crouches on the edge of the bank, and fishes my notebook out of the shallows. He hands me the damp notebook and says, “Watch out for green stones.”

“Noted.” I flip the notebook open and write “green stones.” On the line below, I write “THOSE HANDS” in tiny block letters that aren’t meant for the report.

I grin at his back like an idiot all the way to lunch. We sit on a flat rock above the creek with our boots dangling. He hands me a fistful of almonds from his pack.

“Are these regular snacks or bribes?” I ask.

“I’ve tried them on the squirrel, but they don’t work.”

“Good thing they work on me.” I push up my sleeve, because the sun’s out and it’s warm, and he looks at my arm.

There’s a tattoo there, from the inside of my wrist to my elbow. It’s one long wavy line that rises and falls and rises again.

“What is that?” he asks.

“A low E. The bottom string on a bass, the way it looks on a sound monitor.” I trace it with one finger. “I played bass in a post-punk band for seven years. Four of us in a van, playing every bar between here and Seattle.”

“I played trumpet,” he says. “Marching band. Two years.”