I can feel the chocolate melting on my tongue—real chocolate, not the sad brown casing that coats the outside of the Atkins bars. “I was going mad with those horrid bars.”
“Why do you have them?” He’s got his knees folded up toward his chest, his thick arms propped atop them.
“There’s a story there. Joshua McGillin’s diabetic, and he spends much of his time out at the Patches. Elderly gentleman, quite set in his ways. We ordered some meal replacement bars for him—two dozen, early this past spring—but something happened and the crate contained twelve dozen.”
I shake my head, laughing at the memory. “It turned out he didn’t care for them at all, so they were divvied up among the ones of us whose duties keep us out of our homes at times. Normally if I’m about the slopes, I pack another snack. Often a number of other snacks. I don’t know—I suppose the bars got pushed down in my pack and I forgot them.”
“It’s good you did.”
I sigh. “I long for an apple or a Pop-Tart.”
“There are Pop-Tarts here?” His brows shoot up, making me smile.
“Indeed. Brown sugar cinnamon.”
He makes a soft sound, like a laugh that doesn’t quite launch. “Nice.”
“When we get out, I’ll go to Gammy’s place and put one in the toaster for you.”
I tell him to turn around, and I go to the stream, where I change into another pair of shorts I found in my bag and a white tank top. I clean myself as quickly and discreetly as I can, using the inside of my dirty clothes to dry my
self, and then wash those and hang them out to dry. The clothes I wore the night we fell into the burrow are near-dry, finally; I imagine they took such a while because it’s slightly damp here.
When I return to the cave’s mouth, I find Declan swinging the hammer, standing atop a pile of fragments that’s impressive.
“Did you sleep at all last night, Carnegie?”
“Some.”
“Liar.”
His eyes are ringed with exhaustion. His bearded face looks leaner now, and a bit somber. My gaze dips to his lips, and I find they look in need of moisture. “You need lip balm, buddy.” I flash him a silly grin, and he touches his mouth, looking a bit zombie-like.
Poor Carnegie. I decide I’ll fetch some for him.
“There you are.” I pass some cherry ChapStick to him, watching as he glides the tip over his lush lips then caps the stick. That’s how I notice his fingers trembling. Really trembling, like he’s terror-stricken…
I reach out and wrap my hand around his. Declan freezes, his expression carefully blank.
My stomach does a slow roll as I look up at him. “What’s the matter?”
He frowns. “Nothing.”
“Yes it is. You’re shaking.”
He pulls his hand away from mine and holds it out, long fingers spread. “Not shaking.” But his voice is too steady, his tone a bit too ardent. I grab his hand again and thread my fingers through his, finding his hand damp and cool…and shaking.
His eyes close as his fingers relax. I wrap both of my hands around his larger one, and I can feel his whole arm trembling.
“Oh, Carnegie…are you quite sure you’re okay?”
He nods once, but doesn’t lift his eyes open. His hand between mine feels heavy. I give it a rub. “I don’t believe you.”
As I peer up at him, he opens his eyes to look at me. His face is utterly unreadable as he holds my gaze and squeezes my hand. “No one said you had to, Siren.” He lets my hand go and turns away. “I’m going to keep digging now, okay?”
Is it okay? Surely it isn’t. What would make him tremble like that? He’s put his blood-stained shirt back on for reasons I can’t fathom, and even with the cotton stretched over his back and arms, it’s plain for me to see he’s trembling all over.
Could it be anxiety? He told me he’s afraid of being confined. I’d like to ask, but he won’t look at me, is now striking the rim with what appears to be unbridled force.