Page 78 of Kings of Sherwood

I lift my head a half inch, eyes squinting, unsure if it’s dark or light out—but I can see who’s in front of me.

Rob. Crouching at the side of the bed.

Behind me, a sleepy Will stirs, pushes up on an elbow.

“The fuck...?” he murmurs, silver hair sticking up at all angles.

“Back to sleep, Scarlet,” Rob says to him. “Maren,” he repeats. “Come with me?”

I squint my eyes shut, trying to process. “What time is it?” I ask. “Why are you evenupthis early?”

“I’ve been up. Clearing the roads. Now I’m back. I wanna take you somewhere.”

I can barely process this. I don’t want to get up. It’s too early. I’m tired. I can’t imagine there’s anything worth doing at this hour of day.

But something in the way he asks—or maybe it’s just the fact that he’s asking, after what happened last night...

Either way. I get up.

When we get out to the garage a few minutes later, there’s a purple-pink line at the scraps of horizon I can see through the black tree trunks around the house. My phone says 5:05.

Glorious, I think sarcastically, and stuff it in the pocket of the jean shorts I’d pulled on, along with a slightly-too-big, worn-in T-shirt and a pair of work boots.

“There’s no dress code where we’re going, right?” I mumble.

Rob looks back at me and laughs. “Just don’t show up too formal.” He looks me up and down once. Then a second time, a little slower. “I think you’ll fit in just fine.”

He jingles the keys, and that’s when I realize there’s a car out front I’ve never seen before.

A pickup, with FORD spelled out on the deep red of the tailgate. An F-150—a late ‘80s model, from the looks of it, back before pickup trucks were the size of tanks. Just everything you need in a truck and nothing you don’t.

“What’s this?” I say, running a hand over the hood. It’s in good shape, for as old as it is.

“Family car,” Rob says. “My daddy’s.” He opens the passenger door—just like that.

I slide in the front bench seat, and the engine rumbles to life. It sounds nice and clean. Well-maintained. I wonder if Rob’s been doing it himself, wherever he’s been hiding this all this time.

A thousand different conversation starters flick through my still under-caffeinated mind as we drive.

Are you feeling better?

Are you feelingworse?

Did you actually clear out an entire stretch of road all on your own, all overnight?

Your dad’s car, you say?

But I can’t seem to get any of them past my lips. So instead, I prop an elbow on the door, rest my head, and watch the scenery pass us by.

The deep green of the forest, still mostly asleep. A few birds twittering, but everything else dormant. It’s beautiful, I think. This forest. I do like it here—I love it here.

And suddenly, the thought of being anywhere else—even a white sand beach or a far-off, glittering city with world-record-breaking skyscrapers—seems like a shame. A punishment, almost.

I glance at Rob, whose hand is easy on the wheel, his sleeves rolled up just to his elbows. He doesn’t look too tired. Eyes sharp and alert. The only indicator he pulled an all-nighter is the little sheen of stubble on his chin, which I prefer there anyway.

We trundle out of the woods, past the rolling fields, as the sky’s edge warms and blooms into a honey-gold sunrise. A little haze clings low to the ground over the leaves of soybean, and my chest catches a little as I realize we’re headed toward Nottingham.

But he doesn’t take us anywhere near the main drag. Or the east side. He splits in between, drives almost to the other side of it—to a small stone building with a gravel parking lot at the end of a chunked-up, unmaintained road. An American flag sticks out, red, white, and bright blue, despite the shabby façade of the building itself.

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