There was a scatter of clothing on the bed. One of the drawers below the berth was open, half-folded T-shirts hanging off its edge. The bedclothes were wrinkled and the pillows all bunched up, like he’d thrown himself down, slept in his jeans, then changed in a rush and left. Maybe Julian had come for him early. Or that family business was more urgent than he’d let on.

I set the flashlight down on the desk, turned on the bed lamp, and gathered up the bits of clothing. I could fold them at least, so he didn’t have a mess to come home to. In the close, hot air of the cabin, their aroma was a sense memory—smoke, sweat, gunpowder, and a hint of diesel—the entire last twenty-four hours, starting with my ill-advised trip to the Souk. I pressed my face to the pile and inhaled. Not sweet or even very clean—after all, by my count, he’d worn this shirt and jeans since yesterday morning—but it was definitively Daniel. For an instant, I imagined holding him instead of a crumble of soiled duds. I’d forgotten what desire felt like, the thrill of bodies coming together, and it shook me that it felt so good. Would it be there the next time I had him in front of me?

The den shrink once said people hold on to phobias because they’re more familiar than change, which makes you face the unknown. But though this terror of intimacy was deep in Glimmer’s identity, it had never been part of Lizzy’s. She’d had lovers . . . I had. Like Tayco, whose parents had taken him away to the mountains of Maine. Or that guy Amir. I remembered them now, but it seemed like ages ago, not just . . . what? Last year? Abel had distorted my sense of time along with so much else.

Not ready yet. But getting there.

Under the cast-offs lay a fat book with a bit of paper tucked in like an oversized bookmark. At the top, it said: Lizzy. He even spelled it right. I slid the scrap out and held it nearer the lamp.

In case you get tired of that other book you’re reading, this should keep you busy.

Like he’d known what I’d do, in his space, with his clothing . . . or hoped I would.

It was an old book. Heavy, but comfortable in your hand. I turned its spine to the light.

MOBY DICK.

I sighed, dropped the pile on the bed, folded it into a neater stack, and set it on the corner of the berth. I returned the clean scatter to the drawer and closed it. Now my hands felt empty. I’d checked the boat, the ropes, even straightened up a little. I switched off the recessed lights. The tiny bed lamp couldn’t be drawing much power. I’d leave it to welcome him home.