“I have lots of favorite things.” My beloved rearranged a sleeping Eddie, sat, swung his long legs up onto the lounge, and leaned back. “Good thing you’re so short,” he said. “This way there’s room for me to put my arm around you.”

So many responses, so little time. As I tried to choose the best reply, he pulled me close, nestling my head against his shoulder. “How are you doing?” He kissed my forehead and my insides melted a bit. “Your text messages were informative, but only in a factual sense.”

I tried to put my skittering thoughts into a semblance of order. “I’m fine. At least I will be.”

He hugged me hard. “Good. Because you promised, remember?”

“I did?”

“Sure. You said you’d never become a burden.”

That didn’t sound like something I’d say. Not that I ever intended to be a burden, of course, but I didn’t like to make promises I didn’t have complete control to keep. “When did I say that?”

“Let’s not get all detaily.” He kissed me again. “So we’ve established that you’re not actually fine. You’re traumatized in a number of ways, from that car almost hitting the bookmobile, to the bookmobile almost hitting the guy in the road, to not being able to resuscitate him. What are you going to do to heal yourself?”

“I’m not traumatized.”

“Are, too,” he said. “You’re human, aren’t you? Hang on, let’s check.” He tugged lightly on my hair. Pinched my cheek. Wiggled my nose. “Yep. Flesh and blood. And despite your penchant to find dead bodies, there’s no way you’ve become so accustomed to it that you’re immune to the trauma of doing so.”

“Penchant?” I snuggled into him. “Did someone give you a word-of-the-day calendar?”

Though Rafe often acted as if he’d left his last brain cell in the trunk of his first car, he was actually very intelligent. Accordingly, he ignored my question. “Traumatized,” he repeated. “And you know what that means.”

I did. It meant my aunt Frances would want to coddle me. That my friend Kristen would berate me. That the library staff, marina staff, marina residents, and everyone else I knew would want details. It also meant one more thing to avoid talking to my parents about.

“Is there any chance,” I asked, “that I could be you for a week and you could be me?”

“There’s an idea.” Rafe smoothed my hair. Unsuccessfully, because the curly stuff coming out of my head resisted all such attempts. His own hair was as black as mine, but shiny and sleek, which went hand in hand with the slightly reddish tone to his skin, both of which were likely inheritances from distant Native American ancestors.