Cole got up, dumped their sacks onto the floor, and wrapped her in his arms. “I’m sorry I overreacted,” he said quietly. “But I came home and you were gone and—”

“You leave every morning,” Debbie said. “You tell me you’ll be back. I trust you to fulfill your word, Cole.” She doubled up her fist and punched him gently in the chest. “You have to allow me the same.”

“But you’re so little, I guess that—”

“Bullets are smaller.”

Her response shocked and silenced him. She was right.

“I suppose you’re going to hold this over my head,” he growled as he gave her one last hug before following her into the kitchen.

“Only if you hog all the drumsticks.” She grinned, and then she knocked on Buddy’s door as they walked by. “Buddy! You can come out now. And I did forget your Pop Tarts, but I brought you one of each of the desserts from KFC, instead.”

He beat them both to the kitchen.

*  *  *

It was the witching hour. Cole had tossed and turned until his bed looked as if it had been turned inside out. All through their evening meal, Debbie had studiously ignored him. Oh, she’d laughed and talked and answered when spoken to, but she hadn’t made eye contact once.

He wasn’t sure what he’d done to warrant this treatment. But gut instinct told him that it was what he hadn’t done that was causing her behavior. He’d caught the inference she’d made earlier about “her stay.” He’d done nothing to insure that it was permanent. And it was time he did.

The hardwood floor was cool beneath his bare feet as he walked across the hall and paused outside her door. A thin string of light shown beneath, telling him that she was still awake. He knocked once, gently, and called her name. “Debbie, can I come in?”

“It’s open,” she answered.

He pushed the door inward, and what he saw pulled him into the room in a panic.

Her suitcases were open on the bed, some souvenirs she’d been accumulating were arrayed on table and bed, and some extra clothes were draped across a chair.

“Can’t you sleep?” she asked without looking up. She didn’t wait for his answer. “Me either. I got to thinking about what I’d accumulated since my arrival and wondered if I’d forgotten a gift for anyone. You know how it is…there’s always a few friends back home who expect you to bring them a—”

“No!”

His denial was loud and sharp.

She stopped, turned around, and looked up. There was fear in his eyes.

“What?” she asked, and shrugged, sweeping her arm toward the stuff on her bed. “Don’t you ever take back little gifts for—?”

“You can’t,” he whispered, and pulled her into his arms.