“I’m not sure Arkansas nights are cold enough for that, even up here in the mountains.”

“Hush, let me have this. Besides, hypothermia is still a risk.”

Truth is, I don’t want her to move either. I want to reach out my hand and curl my fingers around hers and hold on for dear life. Two months ago, I didn’t even know who Grace was. In the first few weeks of being here, our paths barely crossed, and in our past few conversations, I wanted to strangle her on a number of occasions. But tonight, when she’s close enough that I can feel her breathe in and out, she’s my tether.

We sit in silence for a while, and then she asks, “Why did you do it?”

I frown. “Why did I do what?”

She opens the blanket enough to let the cold in, and she waves at the graves. “This. Dig graves. Spend time with them.” She pulls the blanket to her chest again and huddles closer. “I know you think it’s important to remember, and I agree. It’s also a whole lot healthier to bury them. But…why you?”

“Because it needed to happen.” I opt for the easiest answer first, but Grace’s question sets the cogs in my head turning. I’ve barely answered those questions for myself.

“Sure,” Grace says, “but we could have found an alternative.”

“Such as?”

She pulls her knees up to her chest and rests her chin on them. She’s turned toward Aleesha’s grave, though I doubt she’s aware of that. “I don’t know,” she admits. “I guess we could have taken turns?”

“Someone had to do it, and we don’t know if it’s dangerous. Better if it’s just one of us.”

“Aren’t you scared?”

I lean into her. I don’t do it on purpose, but the warmth draws me in. I can count on the fingers of one hand the times someone has touched me this past month. Only by accident or for aid, and I’m starved for it.

“I’m terrified,” I admit. “I don’t have a simple answer for you. I do think it’s important. To have our todays, tomorrows, and our yesterdays. I want someone to remember me. I don’t want any of them to be alone.” I weigh my words. “But that wasn’t what convinced me.”

Grace waits, but when I stay silent, she asks, “What did?”

“I wasn’t meant to be here, you know? I got kicked out of my home, and my parents didn’t want me back when I got arrested. Those first few weeks, every morning when I woke up on my raggedy bed, I had the same words running through my mind. I don’t belong here. I thought it would get easier. I thought maybe working in the garden would change things, but the truth is, I still don’t think I belong here.” I never said any of that out loud, and the words weigh heavy, but speaking them makes me feel lighter. I pull my shoulders up to my ears, and a flicker of pain trails through my arm. “And I don’t know where I do belong. I don’t know who I am. I’m still figuring that out.”