“Okay.” The words it’s not even seven thirty yet want to bolt from my lips, but I bite down on them. Don’t need an instant replay of the scene at Bree’s house. Dad isn’t acting mad, just not normal, like he’s biting down on stuff he wants to say, too. I take the plate. “Thanks.”

I’m about to go to the couch when he says, “Home by eight on school nights from now on. Okay?”

I hesitate. “All right.” Only slightly defensive.

“And it’s too cold to go outside without a coat. So start wearing yours.” A scrape as he sits and scoots the chair back up to the table. And I still don’t know if I’m in trouble.

Later, I lie in bed, lights off, surrounded by my familiar stuff. Worn-out comforter, bookshelf still waiting for me to cram it with my tired old favorites, nightstand with a gooseneck lamp. No matter what apartment we’re living in, I always put my bed in the center, posters in the same formation. Making sure there are no surprises in the dark, I guess.

But you can never quite control how the light comes through the blinds, how shadows move across your walls. Because it is a different room, a new place, and it’s all so completely out of your control.

So tonight, I use the shadows. Relax my eyes, letting the slight variations in blackness run together like watercolors, painting my memory of the marsh. Kincaid beside me, our arms locked. Was there anything across the water from us? Maybe the indication of a head, massive shoulders, but way, way up among the branches, too tall for my brain to even register what they were, because, like Kincaid said—he’s something that shouldn’t be?

I look, but it’s all fragments, abstract shapes and shadows that fall apart when I try to force the jigsaw together, pounding tab A into slot D with my fist like a frustrated five-year-old. I roll over, letting it all dissolve into nothingness again, bringing out the prize I’d claimed from this strange night. I know what Kincaid smells like now. Cold outdoor air. Wood smoke. Demon whiskey, but only a hint of it, like he was trying to make his bottle last.

I breathe, pretending I still smell him, and it leads me to the brink of sleep, where I balance, eyelids heavy, getting one final impression of my closet door, standing open. It bothers me; I want it closed while I sleep. But I’m over the brink now, sinking, and know nothing more until my alarm goes off at six a.m. Bang my hand on the snooze button, gazing at the same angle of the room I drifted off to. Comprehension sinks in.

The door is closed.

Ten