There was not a lot going on in the town of Cascade: a tackle shop that was closed for the winter, a grocery store, a US Forest Service office. Ángel stopped at Auntie’s Homestyle Restaurant (Come Hungry, Leave Happy!) and went in, hoping that the local cops weren’t on the lookout for dirty, sweaty, frightened Cubano fugitives.

Auntie’s was blissfully warm. The hostess seemed friendly and too busy to be suspicious; she told him there would be a wait for a table, but that he could sit at the counter right away. He perched on a stool at the counter and tried not to be obvious as he glanced around. The place was full of white people, mostly older couples and families. But one corner table hosted five brown people, quietly speaking Spanish to each other. Probably Mexican, thought Ángel, illogically but instantly a little more comfortable.

He ordered coffee, soup, a cheeseburger, and a side of tater tots. As he waited, the guy next to him paid and left, leaving behind a newspaper. The Idaho Statesman.

Ángel ate the huge quantity of hot food that appeared before him and read the paper. They must have rushed to print. The photograph on the front page showed Oberon and the other fae envoy with their arms wrapped tightly around each other. Oberon’s face was buried in the other fae’s shoulder, and their identical green-and-ivory hair blew around them. The new envoy had a slender hand cupped around the back of Oberon’s head.

They were communicating with each other. Through touch.

The article confirmed that the DOR was very interested in Ángel’s whereabouts. There was a toll-free tip line and everything.

Oh God.

Staring at the picture, he wondered if Oberon thought Ángel had betrayed him too. The cheeseburger was suddenly a cold and greasy wad in Ángel’s stomach.

He didn’t have a home. He didn’t have a family. His best friend was now friends with a DOR agent.

Oberon was his lover. Oberon was his love. He trusted Oberon. But Ángel had run away. He hadn’t been there when Oberon needed him. And now, right now, Oberon was being comforted by someone else. Someone who could communicate with him better than Ángel ever could.

“You okay, hon?” asked the waitress.

He deliberately fisted his sore right hand, letting the pain wash through him and clear his whirling mind. Did the waitress seem suspicious? Did she know they were looking for him? Was one of his fellow diners at Auntie’s going to call the cops on him?

“Yeah,” he said, huskily. “I’m okay. It’s been a long day.”

“You want more coffee?”

“Just the bill. Thank you.”