I've never walked to his cabin before.
In two months I've crossed this gravel a hundred times to bring him things, to clean things, to fetch Nash from somewhere on the property, and I've never once knocked on his door.
I don't know what his front room looks like. I know about the monitors only because Nash told me there are three of them, and that one of them showed him a satellite picture of our cabin from space, which is a sentence I've thought about for a while.
I'm halfway across the gravel when his front door opens.
Rogue steps out. He's not wearing the white hat. His phone is in his hand. He looks like a man who was about to call somebody and just got interrupted by movement out his window.
He sees me crossing the yard and stops on his porch. I stop at the bottom of his porch steps.
"Hadley."
"There was a black car at the gate."
His face doesn't change. It's what tells me everything I need to know, how there’s no reaction. "When?"
"About forty minutes ago."
"Did the driver get out?"
"No. Just sat there for a few minutes, then drove off."
He nods once. "Have you seen it before?"
I shake my head.
He doesn't tell me he has. He doesn't say much of anything for a second.
He stands there on his porch, his auburn hair a little mussed like he's been running his fingers through it, and his eyes don't leave my face.
I want to ask him is if he’s in trouble, ifwe’rethe reason he’s in trouble.
I want to know if he's scared, because if a man like Rogue is scared then I should be terrified, and I'm not terrified, and I want to know why.
"I got chicken salad leftovers at the bunkhouse. You want me to fix you somethin' for later?"
He goes still on the porch. Just for half a second. Like the offer caught him somewhere he wasn't expecting to be caught.
"You bringin' me leftovers, Hadley?"
"I'm offering you some before Thunder and Blaze eat them all."
He looks at me for a long second. "I'd appreciate that, Hadley."
I should turn and go. I know I should. The bunkhouse is fifty yards behind me and there's a plate that's not gonna fix itself.
I don't move.
"You came all the way over here to tell me about a car and feed me dinner?" he says.
His voice is dry. Not quite a smile. Not quite not one, either.
"I came to tell you about the car. The dinner is a courtesy."
The corner of his mouth moves. Just a quarter inch. The closest thing I've seen to a smile on his face in a while.
"Courtesy."