“You started talking about a moose on a train.” The words came out as fast as a slap shot. He did not want her freaked out that she was trapped with a hair-petting weirdo. “And then dancing and then you tried to get up and I thought you’d trip over the coffee table or something. I was trying to get you to go back to sleep, and the whole hair thing was one of the tricks my mom used to use on me.”

“Oh God, I haven’t done that in years.” She let out an embarrassed groan and slumped against the couch. “Did I wake you up?”

He shook his head. “I’m not a good sleeper, and I can’t without the white-noise app on my phone.”

“Lay down.” She grabbed one of the decorative couch pillows covered in silhouettes of deer, put it near her, and patted it. “You heard me—grab your covers and come put your head here and I’ll teach you the secret to falling asleep.”

That sounded very unlikely but he did it, spreading out lengthwise on the couch instead of on the chaise so his head was close to hers. As soon as he did, she got back into her previous position, snuggled upon her side facing him so that together they formed an L.

“Close your eyes and picture a porch swing,” she said, her voice more of a whisper than its usual volume.

“This isn’t going to work.” None of it ever did.

She flicked him in the shoulder with her fingers. “Not if you’re talking.”

“Fine.” He closed his eyes and his mouth.

“With each inhale, the swing goes back and with each exhale it goes forward,” she said, each word calm and deliberate, without sounding like a carnival hypnotist. “Keep your breaths slow and steady so it just gently swings in the breeze. Back and forth and back and forth.”

He’d tried meditation and visualizations before. None had worked, but there was something about Shelby and the higher pitch of her voice that settled him. It didn’t make any sense. It was supposed to be lower voices that soothed, but he couldn’t deny that his eyes were getting heavy the longer they lay there, their breaths syncing as he imagined a white porch swing moving back and forth.

“I like listening to you talk,” he said, the words coming out before he could second-guess.

“No one likes that,” she said, her voice soft and sleepy. “There’s a reason why I do most of my talking from a keyboard, because otherwise I’m The Squeaker.”

Her voice wasn’t that high-pitched. Jesus. “People are assholes.”

A barely there scoff in agreement. “They can be.”

In and out, he concentrated on the sound of his breathing, making sure to match her inhales and exhales, as the fire crackled in the distance. It was better than any option on his white-noise app.

“Shelby?”