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HIDDEN CARE

HOLT

At the start of Wren’s second week on the job, I walk into the map room and discover she has turned the back wall into a crime board.

She has pinned the old survey in the middle, circling the blank north interior in red. Around it, she’s taped up index cards, each with a word or phrase in her neat block capitals.

FOOTBRIDGE.

CREEK.

WASPS.

SOUTH FIRST.

NO.

Red string runs from every card to the circle. She’s standing in front of it, staring at the circle as if seeing through the paper.

“Prue dropped by looking for you,” she says, without turning around. “She left a message.”

“If it’s about the culvert invoices, I sent them.”

“It’s not about the invoices.” Now she turns around. “The committee is leaning on her. She wants the north loop field survey on her desk by Friday next week. The full loop, interior included.”

I set my coffee down on the table. “Next week.”

“Friday next week.” She folds her arms. “She also asked me if I thought you were stalling.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her the wasps up there are aggressive this year.” She doesn’t smile.

There’s an edge in her voice I haven’t heard before. Her cheeks are pink and her eyes are bright. Anger suits her, which is the last thing I should notice right now.

“Thank you for covering for me,” I say.

She points at the circle. “My evaluation depends on this report. So does my next posting, and the one after that. You’ve given me a map with a hole in it.”

“The interior isn’t⁠—”

“Suitable. I know.” She steps closer. “Tell me what’s in the hole.”

I don’t answer.

“That’s what I thought.” Her voice drops, and that’s worse than the edge. “You’re handing me a redacted map and asking me to sign my name to it. That isn’t fair. I’m only doing my job.”

She’s right.

Wren has put up with all my excuses. She’s been loyal to a fault, and what have I done for her?

I’ve made her job harder at every turn.

I want to tell her. For the first time in years, I want to tell someone.

She’s frustrated, but I still can’t tell her. I pick up my coffee and take a huge swallow to keep from saying anything.

It’s scalding. I jerk the mug away, coffee slops over my knuckles, and I swear and sputter like a man who’s just licked a stovetop.