He went back out. The wind was starting to gust outside, and the snow was falling harder. On the floor, Ava played with Matty. Jack got the milkshake from the dresser and sat on the bed and slurped a spoonful. Sweet, tart berries. The taste brought back pictures in his mind. Images of childhood, picking huckleberries with Mom and Dad in the woods. Matty, just a baby. Strapped in a harness on Dad’s back. Mountain air, a drizzle of rain. The purple berries hanging from wet branches. Mom’s voice, floating above the cool silence.

Happy.

He shut off the thought and finished the milkshake and fries, watching Matty and Ava play. Matty giggling. When had he heard that last? And her. On her hands and knees, she ran a toy car over the carpet. Still in her wool coat. Her voice clear and soft. Like a strand of song he’d never forget. Something deep in Jack moved. All your life you wonder, what would it be like? And then it happens. She glanced at him, as if feeling his stare, and he looked at the television. When she went back to playing with Matty, he resumed watching her. Who is she? He could not figure her out.

Her: A complexity of opposites. Of gentle and rough, of dark and light.

She sat up, frowning. “What are you doing?”

“What?”

“It’s just … you keep looking at me.”

He didn’t know what to say, so he just shrugged and kept looking at her. His stomach was full and his side didn’t hurt, and a warm golden haze flowed through him, making him brave.

She studied him.

“What?” he asked.

She almost smiled. “Nothing.”

But she was looking at his hair.

“I know,” he said. “I’m a mess.”

Matty lay on the carpet and watched the television. Ava stood. Pink bloomed across her cheeks as she inhaled.

“I could cut it,” she said.

“Okay.”

She sat him in the chair by the lamp. The glowy light of the television permeated the room. She dampened a towel with warm water and rewet his hair with it. Her touch tentative. The way she looked at him.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

She stood in front of him with the scissors, considering his hair, mulling over her choices. Then she set about cutting. Her hands in his hair. Her fingers brushing his scalp, grazing his neck. It took some time, and he could tell she wanted to do it well. Her concentration. Without a word. His eyes felt hot and he looked down at his hands, blinking. It was so good—the way it felt—to be touched by her. Trust, risk, hope: It was too much. He lurched to his feet.

“What?” she asked.

He was shaking. “Nothing.”

Her gaze unnerved him. He could hardly think. He had to sit.

“Should I finish?”

“I think so. Yes.”