Sorcha frowned. He tamped down the herb and fished in his pocket for a match. “Then he’s a right bastard. Look, you can. You should. You’re all taxed, Ariah, all stretched taut. Give yourself an hour.”

I smoked nearly the entire bowl myself. Sorcha took just enough to feel it, but not enough to get really stoned, but I drowned myself in it. And it helped. It was a crutch, and it was an escape, but sometimes you have to run away, and a broken leg is nothing on which to do the running. The first thing I did when the herb took hold was peel off my shirt. The air was cold against my damp skin. I pulled off my boots. I leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, and listened to my own heart. I counted my breaths. I felt the world through my skin. I felt contained in that moment, separate and bounded, and it was a relief. “Sorcha,” I said.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Stop thanking me. Nothing to thank me for.”

I found his hand with my eyes yet closed. I gave it a squeeze. “Thank you. I am so glad you’re here. I’d be lost if you weren’t here.”

“Oh, Ariah, no. You were fine in Rabatha.”

I looked over at him. He was fiddling with the pipe. He wore half a grin, a kind of giddiness. “No, I was a mess there. It was hard. I don’t know who I am when I’m not with you.”

He laughed. He wouldn’t look at me. He beamed, bursting with life. “You’re so dramatic. You’re you when you’re not with me. Same as when you are with me.”