The Lost

Chapter Thirteen

The train sails out of the dust and lands between the houses. It continues to punch by them, powering through porches, running over junk piles, until it slams into the side of a house...a yellow house with a white porch and a deli sign over the window in the front door.

I scramble over the side of the train and lower myself down. Releasing, I drop. I crunch aluminum cans under my feet as I crash. Beside me, the engine sputters and then lets out a groan as if it were heaving a sigh.

The train is embedded in the side of the living room. My living room.

Peter leaps down from the engine. He lands softly beside me, like a cat, bent knees. He rises smoothly. “I told you I find the kernel of hope. You lose hope and I can’t find you.” His voice is low, intent, as if he’s angry, but I’m staring at the steam engine sticking out of my house, my sanctuary, the only place here that I feel safe.

Or sometimes feel safe.

I circle the engine. The train doesn’t have any cars, just the engine. Smoke is sputtering out of the funnel, curling black against the blueness of the sky. I feel a lump in my throat as if I want to cry, even though this isn’t my home. It’s just...I like this house.

“Little Red, what happened in there? Met a wolf? Failed to meet a wolf? Or were you Gretel, without bread crumbs to guide you through the forest?” He shakes his head. “You weren’t even in there that long! You should have trusted me to find you!”

The train shudders once more and then is still, as if it were a lumbering creature that just expired. Smoke from the funnel trails into a thin streak. I don’t answer Peter. Instead, stepping into the train, I poke my head into the engine cabin.

Behind me, Peter says, “I’ll always find you. But you have to exist to be found!”

Curled in the corner of the cabin is a man with an apron. His hands are balled into fists, and his head is tucked against his chest. He has brilliant red hair, and his bare arms are decorated with tattoos. I recognize him as the cook from the diner. “You found him?”

“You shouldn’t have tried!” Peter shouts. “You aren’t a Finder!” He’s radiating anger. It’s disconcerting. It’s such an ordinary emotion, and he’s never ordinary.

I face him, study his face. He runs his fingers through his hair as if he wants to yank it out. “I didn’t expect to find anyone,” I say levelly. “I expected you to find me, and then I was going to ask you to find him.”

“I nearly didn’t find you! You were fading! Do you have any idea what that means? I almost lost you! You almost disappeared! I thought you were stronger than that!”

I open my mouth to shout back and then I shut it. He cares, I think. His face is flushed red, and he’s flapping his arms as if he wants to hit something but doesn’t know what. I suck in a deep breath. “I like your train.”

He stares at me for an instant, lowers his arms, and I have the sudden, crazy thought that he’s going to kiss me. Then he breaks into a grin. “Yeah, she’s a beaut. Discontinued model. Probably scuttled to some kind of train junkyard and forgotten. Kind of feel bad that I broke her. Also, the house.”

“Maybe we can use parts of her.” I think he’s over being angry. Or he’s faking it. I can’t tell which. And I find I’m staring at his lips, wondering what it would feel like to taste them. “Add a few enhancements. It can be like a gazebo.”

“Or a playground,” Peter says. “Claire will like it.” He waves at someone behind me. I turn and see Victoria and Claire on the bike, coming toward us, steering around the junk pile. Victoria drops the bike as she reaches the yard, and both of them run toward the train.

Waving, Claire calls, “Sean! Hi, Sean!” And then she jumps into my arms. “You saved him! I knew you’d do it!”

“I didn’t. Peter did.”

Clambering out of the engine, Sean runs toward Victoria. They crash into each other’s arms. Victoria is checking him all over, running her hands over his head and down his neck and back. My eyes slide to Peter, and then I force myself to concentrate on Claire. “All I found was this.” I dig my hand into my pocket and pull out the blue ring. I hold it out toward her.

“Ooh, pretty!” Claire claps.

Peter swoops in and plucks it out of my fingers. He holds it up to the light, and a thin white star appears in the center of the blue. “Huh.”

Arms wrapped around Victoria, Sean twists to look at us and say, “Finder, I owe you my...” His voice dies and his eyes widen. “You found that?”

“Actually, Lauren did,” Peter says absently.

I jump. Peter has never called me by my real first name before. It’s usually Little Red or newbie or Goldilocks or some other nickname. I wasn’t entirely sure he even knew my name. I wonder when I became Lauren to him—when I became more than a tool for his vendetta. Just now? Or had it happened sooner, more gradually? He had saved me, even though I’d doubted him. And he’d been so angry, so beautifully angry. Peter studies the ring, turning it in the sunlight so the star brightens.

“Sean?” Victoria asks.

Untangling himself from Victoria, he walks toward us as if the ring is pulling him. His hand trembling, he reaches for the ring and then stops.

Peter twirls it around the tip of his index finger. “Lose this?”

“It’s a star sapphire. It was an engagement ring. I gave it to... Never mind who. She doesn’t matter anymore.” He swallows, and his throat bobs. “She never gave it back. I haven’t seen it in...a long time. Very long time ago.”

Solemnly, Peter hands him the ring.

Sean takes it wonderingly, fearfully, tenderly. He holds it pinched between his thumb and index finger. Victoria comes up behind him. “Sean?” There’s so much anger and pain in her voice that her eyes are nearly sparking.

He turns to face her. He’s still holding the ring gingerly. He tears his gaze up from the ring to her eyes, and I suddenly know what is going to happen next. Claire opens her mouth to speak, and I clap a hand over her mouth. She glares at me, and I wink. I lower my hand. Peter is grinning. He knows, too.

Sean drops to one knee.

Victoria flushes and then pales and then flushes again.

I pluck at Peter’s coat sleeve and draw Claire with me. Claire cooperates, though she’s clearly confused as we retreat around the engine. On the other side of the train, Peter says in a mild voice, “Every time I begin to wonder why I bother with you, you surprise me.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” I ask. Beside me, Claire climbs up onto the side of the engine. I rise up on my tiptoes to peek through the engine window, watching as Victoria launches herself into Sean’s arms. They tumble to the ground amid the junk. I assume she said yes.

“Depends. Are you planning to say ‘thank you for rescuing me’?”

“Are you planning to insult me?”

A ghost of a smile passes over his face. “I never plan on insulting you.”

Claire drops upside down, her legs holding on to a bar on the train. Her pigtails dangle. “He teases because he likes you. He thinks you’re beautiful, clever, funny, and beautiful.”

I raise both my eyebrows. That’s not the kind of thing that Peter says.

He executes a flawless bow.

“She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes.”

That’s much more like what Peter would say. And even though I know he’s teasing me, my breath hitches in my throat. His eyes, when they lock on mine, are dark and serious.

Tearing my gaze from his, I peek again through the cab of the engine. I can’t see Victoria and Sean. They must still be on the ground. “Claire, come down from there.” If they’re, um, celebrating their engagement, I’d rather she didn’t see. I can talk knives with her, but I’m not volunteering to have that conversation with her. I also carefully don’t look at Peter again, at his intense eyes or softness of his black hair or the strength of his arms and bare tattooed chest. I wonder what it would have felt like if he’d welcomed me back from the void the way Victoria had greeted Sean, and it takes every bit of self-restraint not to look at his lips. “Let’s give them privacy.” I lead her around the house, and Peter follows.

Up ahead, I hear a noise. An unexpected, familiar, beautiful, crazy noise. Like waves, crashing on the shore. Speeding up, I round the corner of the house...and see the ocean.

A quarter mile away, waves lap at the desert. The dust storm swallows the ocean beyond, but the waves crash and crash and crash again on the sage brush and mesquites.

Peter stands next to me. I’m conscious of the warmth of his body near mine, and I think I will always know when he’s nearby. “Yours?”

“I don’t think I lost an ocean.” Except maybe I did, in a way. I had been thinking about the ocean while I was in the void. It can’t be a coincidence.

I’m walking toward it. Shortly, I’m kicking off my shoes and walking over the desert sand. It doesn’t feel the same as beach sand under my feet. It’s drier and hotter, but my eyes are glued on the beautiful, blue-and-white, wild, sparkling-in-the-sun waves. I’m aware of Peter behind me, watching me with his dark, beautiful eyes.

I inhale the smell of sea. It smells right. Salt water permeates my senses, filling my lungs so that I feel as if it’s leeching into my blood. The crash of the waves drowns out all other sound.

I wade in. The cool salty water wraps around my ankles and then withdraws. It hits again with enough force that I wobble. I put my arms out for balance. The horizon is shrouded in dust. But there’s ocean enough.

I wade deeper. Water pulls on my clothes, dragging them down around me, a weight. Soon, I’m up to my knees, my hips, and then I stretch my arms in front of me and glide forward. I feel the water curl around me.

I twist onto my back and look up at the sky.

It’s empty and blue, and for the barest instant, I feel as though I’m home.

Through the water, I hear splashing. I raise my head, and my legs sink. I tread water. The ocean floor, the desert, is close enough that my toes brush against it as I kick. Peter is wading into the water. He’s shed his trench coat and is shirtless. I stare at his tattoos, black feathers and swirls that curl over his chest muscles and around his biceps. Someday I need to ask him what they mean. He halts a few feet from me, the water halfway up his chest, just under his nipples. He looks like an angel, lost from Heaven, fallen into the sea. He thinks I’m beautiful, I think. I shake my head as if to clear that thought.

“You lost this ocean,” he says.

It’s a statement but I hear the question in it anyway. “Yes. I used to swim all the time as a kid.” There are memories upon memories in that simple sentence, a lifetime of moments drenched in salt water, of dreams and daydreams that I dared imagine while I floated on my back, of afternoons that didn’t end.

“Why did you stop?”

“I grew up.”

Peter quotes softly, “‘Why can’t you fly now, Mother?’ ‘Because I am grown up, dearest. When people grow up they forget the way.’”

“I ran out of time. I had to work. You know, those kinds of reasons. Bad reasons. Real reasons. But I did miss it. I don’t think I even knew I missed it. Do you think...it’s really here because of me?”

Instead of answering, he fills his lungs and then ducks underneath the water.

Mimicking him, I duck down, too, and open my eyes underwater. The salt water stings my eyes, but I ignore it. Underwater, the ocean teems with fish that shouldn’t be here: tropical fish of red, blue, and purple, iridescent deep-sea fish that glisten with their own rainbow light, freshwater salmon, dozens of pet-size goldfish... Suddenly, the fish part, startled, as Peter swims through the water toward me. He catches my hand, and we burst out of the water together to breathe. Water droplets bead on his chest and roll off his hair. And he looks so perfect that I want to touch him, to know he’s real.

“Thank you for saving me,” I say. “In the void.”

He nods. He’s looking at me so intensely that I feel as if I’m stuck in the sand. The water crashes around me, and I am motionless.

“You know it’s possible that there are sharks here,” he says.

“You had to say that.”

“I didn’t have to.” He’s grinning. “I chose to.”

I roll my eyes at him. Only a little while ago, I was so close to despair that I nearly died, and yet this man has the power to make me feel like laughing. “Luckily, I didn’t lose any sharks.”

“Have you ever seen one?”

“No.”

“Maybe you lost your chance to see one.”

“I’ve never seen a—”

Stepping closer, he puts his fingers on my lips. “Don’t tempt the void.” He’s dripping with water, seawater over his muscles. I’m aware my clothes are clinging to me. It’s suddenly harder to breathe air than it was to hold my breath under water. My eyes are drawn to his lips, and my body feels drawn to him as if my bones are metal and he is magnetic.

Abruptly, I step backward and look toward the void. It sits on top of the sea about a quarter mile away, plunging itself into the water. “Can it hear me? Is it alive?”

“Maybe, and not exactly.”

“But it can grow.”

“See, knew you were clever.”

I splash water at him. He skips backward and splashes me back. I sweep my arm through the water and fling the wave toward him. He retaliates by shoving water toward me. I skip back, trip, and fall into the water.

He holds out his hand like a gentleman. “I think that means I win.”

I kick his ankle in an attempt to sweep his feet out from under him. It doesn’t work. He doesn’t budge. Instead, he releases my hand, and I fall backward again, splashing into the water. When I come up to the surface, I’m laughing.

On the shore, in the desert, Claire is shouting, “Shark! Shark!” Victoria and Sean are shouting with her and pointing. Great, I think, everyone is mocking me and my ocean. Except that they couldn’t have heard Peter’s joke from shore...

I turn and see a dorsal fin. Waves push against my legs, and my feet sink into the sand. I feel the fish around my ankles, brushing their scales against my skin, touching their puckered lips to my legs and then vanishing in a swirl of water. Shark. I didn’t mean to—

And then the dolphin blows water out of its spout.

I laugh again, and my laugh feels wild and free.

It’s surreal, all of this. All of this is a crazy, extended, supertrippy dream.

“I am going for a ride,” I announce. I push forward through the water toward the dolphin. The dolphin swims in lazy figure eights. His fin breaks the waves. He’s silvery, sleek, and strong, as if he were a single streamlined muscle undulating in the water. I’ve never been this close to a dolphin before, but I am not going to be afraid. It’s a dolphin. And it’s here somehow, impossibly, miraculously, magically. I grab on to its fin, and the dolphin takes off.

Cutting through the waves, I feel as if I’m flying. Water streams around me, and my feet trail in our wake. The dolphin turns, whipping me around with him, and he shoots through the ocean back toward shore. I see Peter closer, closer, closer, and I release.

I sink down. My feet touch the bottom and I stand up, my toes in the sand. I feel light-headed and giddy. The dolphin leaps out of the water and then swims away. Peter is looking at me with an unreadable expression. “What?” I ask.

“‘The mind is its own place, and in itself / Can make a heaven of Hell, a hell of Heaven.’ Still think this place is so terrible?” He sounds wistful.

“It has its moments,” I concede. And for an instant, I feel as if I can’t move. My eyes are locked on his, and I want to reach for him and erase the hint of sadness that I see in his face. But then I hear Claire calling to us.

I wade toward shore. My wet clothes sag around me, and it’s like dragging weights on my legs to move forward as I emerge. I feel the dry desert air picking at me. The sun blazes down, and I squint to see Claire hopping from one foot to the other on shore. As soon as I reach her, she cries, “Teach me how to do that! I want to swim with dolphins!”

“You got it.” I ruffle her hair.

“Hey, you’re wet!” she protests.

I shake like a dog, spraying her with water from my clothes. Laughing, she skips out of the way. I turn to Victoria and Sean. “Is our deal still on?” I ask Victoria.

Victoria smiles. She’s holding Sean’s hand with a grip that looks painful. “I can’t make promises for the rest of town, but you have our friendship.”

It’s a start, I think. “I don’t know why he left, and I don’t know why he hasn’t come back. I’m just as trapped here as the rest of you, and probably more clueless.”

“I already said I won’t shoot you.”

“I know, but...” I trail off and squint at her. It could be the light but...I look at Sean and then at Peter and then back to Sean and Victoria. A soft white light crinkles around their silhouettes. It reminds me of the overfriendly woman from the diner, Merry. “Is it me, or are they glowing?”

Sean and Victoria look at each other. Their eyes grow wide, and their mouths part in nearly identical expressions. And then they laugh, joyously and loud, the sound traveling over the ocean waves and melding with the sound of waves breaking and then crashing on the desert shore. It’s contagious. I find myself smiling, and then I notice that Peter isn’t looking at them. He’s looking at me with so much raw hope in his eyes that I feel stripped bare.

Claire is clapping and jumping up and down. “You did this! You helped them find what they lost!” She leaps at me and wraps her arms around my neck. She then jumps back. “Still wet!”

“I don’t...” I begin, pulling my gaze away from Peter. The two of them have tears in their eyes. Their hands are clasped, and their smiles are tentative, sweet, and completely clichéd in their adoringness. “But...”

Peter points to the ring on Victoria’s finger. “Claire is right. You found what they needed. You did it, without the Missing Man. Congratulations, Little Red, you just became interesting.” He says this in such a dry tone that I can’t tell if he’s serious or not. I wonder what it means that I’m Little Red again, not Lauren, and if he truly means to imply I wasn’t interesting before. I can’t ask him, so I focus instead on Victoria and Sean.

“But...” I don’t see how what they lost could have been each other when they were here together long before I arrived. Besides, Sean said the ring was intended for someone else, someone he didn’t marry. I don’t know how to frame the question without opening an awkward conversation. They’re beaming at me with wonder and awe. I feel my face flush red.

Peter waves his hand in the air. “You filled their emptiness!”

Sean clasps my hands. He kisses them as if I’m a queen. I half expect him to bow. “I don’t know how we can ever repay you...”

“I didn’t do much.” Worming my hands out of his grasp, I point to Peter. “He brought us out of the void.”

“Twice,” Peter says to Sean with false modesty. “I brought everyone here out of the void at least once. You, I saved twice. As I recall, you tried to fillet me for it.” He attacked Peter? I look from Peter to Sean, and I see Sean lower his eyes. I feel my hands curl into fists, and I want to step in front of Peter, even though he doesn’t need defending, not now and not by me. “Even worse, you never even made me your famous meatloaf.”

Sean’s eyes light up. “Yes! Let me cook for you. Please. It’s the least I can do.”

Claire jumps up and down. “Sean’s special meatloaf!”

Victoria is shaking her head. “We can’t guarantee your safety at the diner—”

“Cook at our house! Oh, pleeease! Your meatloaf is better than cupcakes!” Claire grabs their hands and drags them toward the little yellow house. Peter and I both lunge forward to stop her, but it’s too late. She’s already propelling them to the house, and they’ve already guessed that we live there.

I hear Peter swear under his breath, and I can’t disagree. I felt safer when no one knew we were here. Granted, they’ve promised to be friendly and nonhomicidal... “Maybe we can trust them,” I say softly. “They seem grateful.”

He snorts.

“Why don’t you like them? Did he hurt you? He attacked you, didn’t he?” I want to ask what happened, was he hurt, was it serious. But his expression is closed.

“Let’s say I’m not exactly the beloved son of the townspeople of Lost. I brought them here, after all, never mind that I saved them from oblivion.” He strikes a pose. “The pain of the misunderstood hero.” He sniffs dramatically and then drops the pose. “Pity me yet?”

“You saved me. Multiple times. You’re not the bad guy here. In fact, you stayed in Lost, continuing to help me and now helping Sean. It’s the Missing Man who left. He’s the one that people should be angry at. Not you. Not me.” I realize that I’ve raised my voice and that Victoria, Sean, and Claire have stopped skipping toward the house and are staring at me. I feel my face heat up and know I’m blushing.

Sean clears his throat and says, “I make a seriously mean meatloaf.” Claire smiles at him, and he ruffles her hair.

“‘Lay on, Macduff.’” Peter bows. “‘And damned be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!”’ After all, one can never have enough meatloaf.”

All of us troop up to the porch. Scurrying forward, I scoot past our new guests before Claire can unlock the door. “Can you two please turn around?”

Victoria opens her mouth to object, but Sean pivots to face the junk pile. Clamping her mouth shut, Victoria turns, too. Her back is stiff, and I know she isn’t happy to be mistrusted. Considering she had a gun pointed at me not long ago—and still carries it—I refuse to feel guilty for my inhospitality. Blocking the mechanism with my body, I unlock the door.

“Okay,” I say cheerfully, as if I didn’t want to escort them to the gate and send them away. I swing the door open and lead our guests inside. “Welcome to our home. And if you try to ‘fillet’ Peter again...” I try to think of a threat that would carry weight, and I can’t.

“That was past,” Sean says solemnly.

Peter studies the ceiling and says nothing.

In a show of politeness, Victoria leans her shotgun against the wall. I shoot a look at Claire and then nod at the gun. She knows what I want her to do. Regardless of how much she likes Sean or his meatloaf, she’ll hide the gun first chance she gets.

“Give me just one minute...” I duck into my bedroom and change into dry clothes as quickly as possible. I emerge to find that Sean is in the kitchen with Peter and that Victoria is poking her head into each of the rooms. I feel like a dog whose territory has been invaded.

Claire is following her like a puppy. If Victoria does anything dicey, Claire will shout. Or simply pull her knife. Victoria’s gun may still be in the hallway, but Claire is quick.

“Would you like a tour?” I try not to sound frosty—she’s not an enemy anymore.

“You managed to turn this place into a home.” Victoria waves her hand to gesture at the house and smiles, as if to make it clear that this is a compliment.

I summon a smile to match hers. “I plan to strip the wallpaper and paint the walls a soft blue.” I’ve already made a few changes to the hall: the photos of an unknown family are gone, and instead, one of the lost Degas hangs on the wall. “Still have a lot of work to do.” I lead her to the living room, where the front of the train engine juts through the wall. It’s broken a bookcase, and the books are spilled all over the floor. Bits of plaster dust have settled all over the couches. “Also, some cleaning to do.”

I show her the dining room and point out the built-in cabinets stuffed with unmatched china. Claire likes to play tea party, and so Peter and I have been collecting teacups and saucers from a hundred different china patterns. Victoria admires the chandelier. Claire and I then trail her to the bedrooms. Claire has her bedroom piled high with her finds, primarily stuffed animals and dolls. I wish I’d made my bed. And put away more of my clothes. At least the closet door is shut so I don’t have to explain Peter’s nest.

Victoria then climbs the stairs to the attic room, the only room that I haven’t yet decorated. I follow her, while Claire lingers behind to hide the shotgun. Victoria waits for me at the top of the stairs. “This room has potential,” she says. “You could add some couches...”

I’m shaking my head, though I don’t realize it at first. I can picture this room so clearly, filled with easels and canvases and supplies... Stopping myself, I force myself to smile. “I’m glad you found what you lost.” She can go home, if the Missing Man returns. I don’t have that option, and it’s hard, very hard, not to feel jealousy itch inside me. She can see her family again. She can rejoin the world, reclaim her life, whatever it was. It hurts, thinking about it, and so I try to push the ache deep down like I always do and pretend it’s enough to paint walls and collect teacups.

She smiles. When she smiles, she’s a truly beautiful woman with features that would be stunning on a billboard or on the cover of a magazine. Jet-black hair. Flawless skin. High cheekbones. Red lips. “He never would have proposed if you hadn’t found this ring.” She holds up her hand to admire it. The star sapphire winks in the light.

“He might have. Sometimes it takes almost losing someone...” I swallow hard, not able to finish the sentence. I miss my mother so badly that it hurts. Most days, I’m able to keep from thinking about home, but with Victoria and her glow in front of me, it’s harder.

Victoria waves her hand. “Spare me the clichés. You performed a miracle here. I’m saying thank you. Just say ‘you’re welcome’ and we’re done.”

“You’re welcome.” I venture a question. “Did you...did you lose a husband?”

“He cheated on me, and I torched his diner. So in a way, yes.” Victoria turns away before I can react, though I have no idea how to react. “Come on. Sean should be finished taking inventory of your kitchen.” She clip-clops down the stairs in her high heels.

I feel as though I’ve missed a moment that I should have seized. Something important that could have happened or could have been said...but it’s gone, as certainly as a popped bubble.

In the kitchen, Sean is opening all the cabinets and drawers. He dumps out dozens of half-used spices, as well as a drawer full of ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise packets from fast-food restaurants, also packets of strawberry jelly. (Claire loves strawberry jelly.) He also discovers our cabinet of cookies. (Claire has a knack for finding those.) He sorts through our cutlery drawer. We have an assortment of random kitchen items, the oddballs on wedding registries that people think they want and then shove into a corner of their basement and forget they ever owned. I still haven’t found a decent saucepan.

Stalking back and forth through the kitchen, Sean makes little humphs of approval and then dismay and then back to approval. He unearths a pomegranate. “Unusual.” He adds it to the growing pile of ingredients next to the stove. I’d found the pomegranate the other day, but then Peter called me Persephone and I hadn’t been able to eat it. I didn’t want to find a way home and then discover I had to return every six months. Odd the things that one becomes suspicious about when one doesn’t have any real hope to cling to. It seemed too big a risk—as if what I eat has anything to do with where I am. Anyway, who eats only six seeds of a pomegranate? That’s like eating six raisins and declaring yourself full.

Hopping up on the counter, Claire examines the ingredients Sean has selected, including the pomegranate and a stack of half-eaten fast-food cheeseburgers. Victoria has drifted into the kitchen and is unwrapping the cheeseburgers, removing the buns, pickles, and cheese.

I wonder where Peter is, and I step into the hallway to listen for him. I see him in the dining room. He’s climbed on top of the table. I wonder if he climbs things when he wants to flee—he always climbs on rooftops to escape. Or maybe he climbs to think. Or he wants to remind me that he has better balance than I do. I don’t know why he climbs things, and I don’t care why. I only care that Peter is unhappy. I don’t question that feeling too closely. Joining him in the dining room, I climb onto the table with him. “You okay?” I ask.

“You know, we could leave, right now, while they’re distracted.” He takes my hands, and I feel as if my hands are tingling. I like the warmth of his hands, probably too much. I remember how I felt in the ocean, so aware of him. “Find a new house. Bring Claire. There’s nothing here we can’t replace.”

I think of the Degas. And of the empty attic room. And of the hallway that I plan to paint. And of Peter’s closet, and the way our toiletries are comingled in the bathroom. I know it shouldn’t matter since this is temporary, but still... I draw my hands away from his. “It would be nice to have allies in town. Especially if Lost is shrinking.”

“I’m your ally. Isn’t that enough?”

“It would be nice to have a few more people who don’t want to shoot me on sight.”

“I’ll keep you safe.” His eyes are intense. I feel as though I could be caught in them and never be able to look anywhere else, never see anything else.

I slide off the table and tuck the chairs in so I’ll be doing something instead of drowning in his eyes. I never meant to become comfortable here, to think about wallpaper and paint, to be drawn to Peter, to care about Claire, to forget about home even for a second. But it’s been the only way to survive each day. “You can’t keep me safe every second. You aren’t with me every second.”

“Maybe I should be.” He jumps off the table beside me. I have to look at him again. His eyes are like the night sky, dark with light in them.

He’s standing close to me. We aren’t touching, but we are only centimeters apart. I feel as though my skin is vibrating from being so close to him. “You have to find lost people,” I say. Every day he goes into the void to search for lost people. Once he was sure Claire and I were safe enough, he didn’t shirk his responsibility. I admire that about him. Misunderstood hero.

“True.” He stares at me, too, as if he wants to drink me in, and I stare back, caught in his gaze. Then he cocks his head and grins. “You know, sometimes I don’t know whether to shake you or kiss you.”

My eyes fix on his lips, and my lungs feel tight. “Me, neither.” There’s an awkward pause. Neither of us moves. My eyes slide toward the kitchen. “We should make sure they aren’t planning on poisoning us.”

He nods, and we go into the kitchen, side by side but not touching.