Light typically came through the small front windows, but the room was shadowed and dim. Which meant I’d been sleeping for hours.

Voices in the kitchen spoke quietly, conspiratorially.

“Hello,” I attempted.

The sharp scrape of chair legs against the wood floor. Then, Trevor and Sawyer stood over me. Trevor’s hand moved across my forehead, brushing back my hair. His hand was cold and felt so good against my hot skin.

“Heather,” he said. “Glad you’re back from the dead.” His voice rang phony and theatrical. I was so weak, if he wanted, he could put me in the trunk and toss me off Crooked Bridge.

Come on, Heather. He wouldn’t.

“Do you remember what you ate today?” he said.

“I think it was the sushi.”

“Where’d you get sushi?”

“A friend. Throw it away. It’s in the fridge.”

“We’re not in the city, things aren’t as fresh around here,” Trevor said. “I don’t think I’d even trust the Red Lobster in Yellow Valley.” Even though there was a condescending tone to his voice, it felt good to hear Trevor criticize this town. I curled up in his criticism like a dog circling near its owner’s feet and settling in nose-to-tail.

“Sawyer?” I said.

“I’m here,” he said, his voice kind.

“The neighbor said he saw teenage boys let the baby cougar out.”

“What? That’s crazy. I didn’t do that.” His reaction was over the top. He totally did it.

“Sawyer, don’t mess with those cougars. They could kill you. They could kill Emily.”

“I’m not an idiot.” He stomped into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator. The suction resisted and released. I yearned for the whoosh of cooled air, but the lunchmeat refrigerator smell would make me sick.

“Heather, what are you doing?” Trevor said, irritation hardening around his voice.

“There’s a cougar loose in the woods.”

“Are you sure?” Trevor said. Skeptical. I couldn’t blame him. I was still feverish.

“Yes. The neighbor told me it’s loose. Don’t let Emily out.” Panic struck me. “Where’s Emily?”

“She’s sleeping. It’s almost midnight.” His cool hand on my forehead again. “Relax. Go back to sleep.” His hand stroking my forehead felt so good, so kind.

I was done throwing up. I’d be back on my feet tomorrow, but now I was dead tired. My throat felt raw and scraped. My back muscles ached.

I didn’t want to ask, I hated to ask my dear Trevor—my policy had always been to leave things be, to go to bed angry, let the argument fade until I could barely remember what it had been about—but I had to.