He hasn’t said a word to me. He hasn’t even looked at me.

“Can you please talk to me?” I try. I can’t imagine spending the rest of the day removed and isolated from the only other person who understands what I’m going through.

Dean finally rolls his shoulders with a soft humming sound.

Proof of life, at least.

“I’m not mad, Dean. You did what you had to do, and I underst—”

“I can’t, Cora. Please.”

The sadness in his tone almost breaks me. He sounds defeated for the very first time. “Don’t shut me out. I can’t do this alone.” I choke on the last word and my chest burns with a longing to maintain our blossoming connection.

He’s all I have.

Dean slowly shakes his head, lowering his eyes to the floor. “I can’t even look at you.”

I suck in a choppy breath. I can’t reach him right now. He is lost to his own demons and regret and impossible decisions.

It’s true that I’m not mad. Dean had a gun to his head and both of our lives were hanging in the balance. There was only one way out, and I told him to take it.

And maybe I’m going just a little bit numb.

I close my eyes and lie back, forcing myself to give him the space he needs. There will be time to talk through it—when he’s ready.

All we have is time.

Evening has fallen and our nightlight has been extinguished.

It’s been hours. Hours.

And Dean still refuses to speak to me.

The silence becomes too much to bear, so I decide to break it as we sit alone in the dark—truly alone. “I was going to adopt a dog,” I whisper into the shadows. I can hardly see him, but I make out a small motion, alerting me he’s not asleep. “You wanted to know what I was thinking about earlier. I was thinking about the two dogs I never got to meet last Sunday. I wonder which one I would have fallen in love with.”

Silence.

My words linger in the darkness, hovering between us, painfully ignored. I pull my knees up and rest my chin between them. I wiggle my toes inside Dean’s gray sneakers that are far too big for my feet. But they bring me a warmth and comfort I so desperately crave, especially now.

I close my eyes and whisper, “Goodnight.”

Dean never does respond to me that night. He doesn’t sing.

I fall in and out of a restless, tumultuous sleep, missing the sound of his voice.

Chapter Eight

T E N Y E A R S E A R L I E R

“Dean, stop the car!”

There’s an injured dog in the middle of the busy, snowy intersection. She is limping, half toppling over, cowering in fright every time a car zooms past, spraying dirty sludge at her and leaving her to freeze to death.