Heart stuttering at the thought of which room that’s likely to be, Lance smiles and hesitates. He’s grateful when Nora chooses that moment to break in.

“So, you’re not going to call the sheriff?”

Alice looks interested. “The sheriff? Why?”

Nora gives her a stern look. “Don’t interrupt.”

“I’m not calling the sheriff.”

“Why would he call the sheriff?” Alice insists.

Nora puts her hands on her hips, which causes the blanket to slide to the floor. She’s wearing a sweatshirt and sweatpants that are obviously covering at least two other layers of clothes; she would probably be as lean as Lance if she weren’t artificially padded. Leaner, actually—there’s a hollowness in her cheeks and a frailness in her wrists that suggests it’s been a difficult winter. Lance feels a pang at that, especially because there are no signs that Alice is anything but well-fed. In the lean winters Lance spent in this house, his father wasn’t the one who bore the signs.

“He’d call the sheriff because the old asshole doesn’t know we’re here, and some people would say that makes us trespassers,” Nora tells Alice. Hearing her matter-of-factly call his father—fuck, their father—an asshole, to Alice—his niece—makes Lance smile. He feels somewhere between amused and incredulous. He ducks his head to hide it, but Nora notices.

At first, her eyes narrow. Then, slowly, she smiles back.

“We’re not hurting anything,” Alice says, her hands on her hips as she faces Lance. “So, you shouldn’t call anybody.”

“I’m not going to,” he assures them both. This time, Nora nods, seeming to accept his answer. She sits on the edge of a sofa that Lance only recognizes because of the remnants of upholstery on its threadbare arms. Some kind of nesting animal gutted the cushions, apparently, but she’s replaced them with folded blankets. Lance sits in the matching armchair and discovers it’s more comfortable than he remembers, like exposure to the wilderness softened it somehow, cleansing it. Then, he shifts his weight and an errant spring digs into his ass, making him rethink the judgment.

“So, how long have you been here?” he asks Nora, but Alice is the one to answer.

“One school year,” she tells him. Then she looks at Nora, and back at Lance with a shy smile. “I’m in second grade.”

“That’s really cool.”

“I’m the best reader in my class,” she adds.

Lance grins at her. “I bet. You seem like you’re really smart.”

She preens a little, playing with the ends of the flyaway hairs pulled out of her braid by the winter hat she shed at the door. “I am.”

“It’s not polite to brag,” Nora reminds her daughter, but her eyes are soft and fond despite the correction.

Alice sighs. “Sorry.” She looks at Lance again. “I’m actually not that good at some stuff,” she admits. “I’m pretty bad in art. I get tired of going slow, and when I go fast, everything kind of turns into a mess.”

“Oh, yeah. I know the feeling.” And the funny thing is, he really does.