Chapter 2

His name was Caleb York.

He came to the ER on a Thursday. Not bleeding. Holding a small bouquet of supermarket daisies and a leash. The leash was attached to a one-eyed hound dog the size of a coffee table.

"Hey, June."

I knew him. Five years ago. Three semesters of college. A breakup that ended with him telling me I was "too much" and me agreeing, because I was.

"Hi, Caleb."

He held out the flowers. The dog sat on my shoe.

"I saw you. Last week. Through the triage window. I almost came in."

"Why didn't you?"

"The dog wasn't ready."

I did not know what that meant. I took the flowers anyway because that is the kind of person I am.

We sat in the break room. He talked. About his vet practice. About the dog, whose name was Marble. About his cabin, which had a wood stove, which he had installed himself.

Then he said, "I have thought about you. A lot."

And that was the moment the door opened.

Wyatt Calder walked in like the room had insulted his mother.

He had a fresh bruise across his eyebrow. His jacket was covered in pine needles. He looked at me. He looked at Caleb. He looked at the flowers. He looked at Marble.

His jaw did the thing it does when he is trying not to say something. The muscle along the bone jumped once. Twice.

"Who is this," he said.

I introduced them. Wyatt did not shake Caleb's hand. He crossed the room. He pulled the orange plastic chair around to my side of the table. He sat next to me. Close. Closer than strangers sit.

"Your hand," he said.

I looked down. The drunk patient from Tuesday had grabbed my wrist when we were wheeling him to imaging. I had not reported it. I had not iced it. I had not told anyone.

"It's nothing."

"Show me."

"It's nothing, Wyatt."

He stood up. He walked out. He came back with the heating pad from the supply closet and the small plastic cup of warm paraffin we use for IV sticks in winter. He knelt in front of my chair, in front of Caleb, in front of the dog, and pressed the heating pad to my wrist.

His hands were huge. The heating pad disappeared inside his grip.

Caleb cleared his throat. "June. Who is this."

I did not know how to answer. State trooper. Family friend. The man who brought me twelve wild blueberries every Tuesday. None of it fit.

"My friend," I said.

Wyatt's thumb moved over the inside of my wrist. Slow. Once. Then he looked up.

"Your pulse just jumped six points."

"My heart is fine."

"Your heart," he said, "is loud enough to scare the dog."

Marble, who had not been scared of anything in his life, was now sitting three feet away with his ears flat.

He stayed kneeling until the heating pad went cold. Caleb left without saying goodbye. He took Marble. He took the daisies. He left the leash on my chair like a man leaving a thing he could not fit back into his life.

When I turned around, Wyatt was still on the floor.

"Why did you do that," I asked.

His jaw tightened again. "He made you uncomfortable."

"How could you tell."

"Because I was watching your hands. You roll your cuff when you're scared. You were rolling your cuff the whole time he was talking."

I looked down. My right hand was wrapped around the hem of my left sleeve. White-knuckled.

I let go.

"You are not scared of me anymore," he said. It was not a question.

I was. I was terrified. I just could not remember why anymore.