Page 102 of Last Light

I figure I’ll take it.

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THE DAY IS LONG ANDuncomfortable.

It really is a tight squeeze with me and the dog on the passenger side. I’m not about to complain, of course, but I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be on the road all day. To always be on the lookout for danger. To constantly search for gas. To rumble over old mountain trails because the roads are too big a risk.

In the middle of the day, we find an old country road. It’s narrow, but it’s paved and is going in the right direction, so we figure we’ll give it a try. We make some decent progress for almost an hour, but then it runs into a small occupied township.

They’re nice enough when we approach to talk to the guards, but they won’t let us through.

So we spend another hour trying to find a route through the woods. When it gets dark, we have to camp for the night.

Travis is quiet, withdrawn. He doesn’t chat as we make a small fire and warm up soup.

I knew it would be like this once we got back on the road.

Travis was relaxed at the house. He isn’t now. He’s not going to tease me or hold me or let go with me anymore. He’s not even going to have sex with me. Not when we’re out in the open like this.

I miss the house. I miss our shower. I miss our bed.

The dog seems happy enough, eating his small portion of dog food, lapping up some water, and then wandering out in the woods by himself for a while before he comes back to scratch up some dirt and curl up in a tight ball beside where we’re sitting.

I brush my teeth, rinse out my mouth with a swallow of water, and take off my overshirt, shoes, and belt. Travis is sitting with his back to a tree and his shotgun beside him.

He always lets me sleep first, so I spread out the sleeping bag beside him, fold up a towel as a pillow, and lie down.

The ground is hard and lumpy.

I miss having sex with Travis.

I miss feeling close to him. He’s a tense, silent presence beside me.

I turn several times, trying to get comfortable.

“Y’okay?” Travis asks after a few minutes.

“Yeah.” I roll onto my back and look up at him. “I just didn’t think I’d get so spoiled after four days.”

Travis gives a soft huff. “Yeah. Know what you mean. The ground ain’t too comfortable.”

“No.”

He meets my eyes in the dying firelight. “Come over here, darlin’.”

I’m surprised—both by the sentiment and the endearment. He only ever calls me “darlin’” when we’re having sex, usually right before he comes. But I do as he says, getting up and moving the sleeping bag closer to him. He arranges me so my head is in his lap. He strokes my hair lightly with one hand.

“Is this all right?” I ask, worried that he’ll be uncomfortable or won’t like having me on top of him since he won’t be able to jump to his feet as easily in case of trouble.

“It’s just fine.” He sounds tired, slightly stretched.

Exactly as I feel.

The dog lifts his head and sees our new position. He hefts himself to his feet and comes over to curl up right beside me.

I close my eyes, feeling Travis and the dog against me.

It’s not the bed. It’s not our little house.

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