“Boone!” he calls, waving me over as if I might miss where he is. “You made it.”
My heart aches with an emotion too complicated to name.
I walk into the clearing, trying to look calm and normal and not like I almost turned around three different times in the last ten steps.
Up close, the scene is… cozy.
He’s dragged his small folding table out onto the patch of ground in front of the station. Two mismatched camp chairs sit on either side. The grill hisses quietly, lid open, heat shimmering above the grate. There are skewers lined up on a plate: chunks of meat, bell pepper, onion, and what smells like mushrooms. A second plate holds foil-wrapped parcels, probably potatoes.
A third plate holds… utensils.
Tiny utensils.
“Hi,” he says, his voice a little breathless as I stop near the table. “I, uh… I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”
“I said I would,” I reply, more gruffly than I intend.
His smile softens. “I know. I’m just still recalibrating to… all of this actually happening.” He gestures vaguely at me, the forest, the sky. All of reality.
I huff. “You and me both.”
He laughs, then reaches for a small cooler at his feet.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks. “I have water, juice, some fizzy flavored things, and a couple of beers I promise I won’t tell Gladys about if you don’t.” He holds up a can in one hand and a flimsy metal cup in the other.
I eye the cup.
I could crush that thing with a twitch. I could also, if I’m not careful, spill its contents all over myself, him, the grill, or all of the above. The idea of proving that level of coordination failure in front of him is… not appealing.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I had water before I came.”
“You sure?” he asks.
“I don’t need a drink,” I answer, perhaps a little too firmly. “Thank you.”
He blinks, then nods and sets the cup aside. For a second, guilt nips at me—he’s trying so hard to make this normal—but then he turns his attention back to the grill.
“So I have absolutely no idea what Bigfoot dietary preferences are,” he says cheerfully, “but I figured: omnivore. This is some kind of marinated steak thing, some vegetables, potatoes, and I have fruit inside if this all offends you.”
“You cooked for me,” I say slowly.
He glances over his shoulder. “Well. For us. I’m not a short-order cook, you know.”
Warmth slides through me. “Thank you,” I murmur.
“Of course,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Least I can do after you saved my life and then let me poke a bullet out of your ribs.”
“You made it sound very glamorous there,” I say dryly.
“Everything is glamorous when the patient survives,” he replies.
He moves around the little grill with practiced ease, turning skewers, checking the foil packets, occasionally fanning awaya puff of smoke with a dish towel. He talks while he works, because Elias always talks when his hands are busy.
He asks about my healing, about whether the area is tender, about whether my biology reacts badly to gunpowder. He asks if hunters have been a problem for my kind for long. He asks about how many of us there are.
To most of his questions, I give short, careful answers.
“Yes, it’s fine.”