“Yes. He texted me,” said Carmen. And she forced herself to do what he was doing: be honest. “I liked him to begin with. Then I saw what he was really like. And . . . and I got to know you.”

He looked at her, hope leaping in his heart. “Are you sure?”

She shook her head and took the tiniest, most tentative step forward and realized she was trembling. “Oh no,” she said. “Oh. No.”

“You’re frozen,” he said, examining her closely. “Come here. Come here.”

And before she had the chance to think about it, he had her hands in his larger ones, soft and strong, and was holding them together.

“You are freezing.”

He drew her closer and she found herself still terrified, heart still racing, but in such a different way and for such a different reason.

“Can you . . . can you warm them up for me?” she found herself saying.

He grinned and took them and buried them under his four layers of clothing, and her eyes popped wide open as she felt his bare back, his flat muscular stomach, his hairless chest.

“Oh!” she said.

“Better?” he said.

“So much,” she said, even though they stung as warmth drew back into them. She looked up at him. “Oh God, are you really going? Now?!”

“Oh, my mother would be disappointed if I don’t. My sisters will think it is funny.”

“Yes, but it’s not like you’re going home for Christmas, is it?” she said, inching closer, her hands warming and unable, it turned out, to stop themselves from running up and down the smooth brown skin of his muscular back. “Jesus,” she found herself muttering under her breath. “Is this very Quakery?” she said as she touched him.

“Do I have to keep explaining?” he said, smiling.

“No,” she said. “I see it.”

“What do you see?”

She looked up. “A religion. Without a church.”

The rustle of the leaves in the wind, the quieting sounds of the birds, the deep muffling of the snow.

“This is your church.”

He nodded. “This is my church.”

“There are things you shouldn’t do in church,” she said, suddenly mischievous. He looked at her, eyes glinting.

“Well,” he said, “this is my church, nobody else’s.”

“That’s true. So you can make your own rules.”

He smiled. “I should tell you my name,” he said.

“Oh, you should!” said Carmen.

“It is not a very good name for me.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“It’s Obedience.”

“Obedience is your name?”

“It is. My sisters called me Obi and I thought they were saying ‘Okay,’ and, well, here we are.” He grinned. “So I have left my family, traveled across the world, studied nature, and”—he stroked her face very gently—“well, it turns out I am not a very obedient person.”

Carmen smiled. “Oh, me neither.”

“Is your mouth cold?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” said Carmen.