Page 62 of The Fixer and the Fugitive

“It makes me a little sad to think of you unable to do fun things because you regard them as childish.”

“Like what?”

“Playing in the snow.”

“That’s one example. Also, it was cold and wet. I’m fun.”

“What do you do that’s fun?”

“I…” Suddenly she couldn’t think of one thing she had ever done, merely because it was fun. “Sometimes I run.”

“Sometimes I do, too, if I’m being chased. Give me something else, an actual fun activity.”

“It’s classified,” she said, scraping up the last of her chili.

“Lies. You won’t tell me because you can’t, because you don’t believe in doing fun things,” he said.

“I’m fun,” she said, banging her spoon on the table.

“Prove it,” he said, one eyebrow quirking.

“How, exactly?” She said it slowly, suddenly wary. What if their ideas of fun were vastly different?

“Play with me.”

“Play what?”

“Hide and go seek.”

“Why? To prove I’m not stuffy?” she said.

“I never said you were stuffy. And the answer to why is why not? We have time, we have energy, I think it will be fun.”

“I don’t know if you’re normal,” she said sincerely, studying him. Celeste felt like she had spent most of her life looking for a yardstick, trying to find a baseline of normality. Sam seemed well adjusted and happy, shockingly so for someone who was essentially running for his life. But was he what she should aspire to be? And was the key to his happiness his willingness to embrace carefree fun?

“Let me assure you I’m not, but then who is?” He dabbed his lips with his napkin and carefully set it aside, waiting for her answer.

“All right. Let me clean up, and then we can go…play.”

“No. Play first, clean later.”

“That doesn’t feel right,” she said.

“You’re trying something new. Trust me.” He stood and reached for her hand, pulling her up beside him. “The dishes will be here when we get back. In fact dishes will always be here. Chores can wait, fun cannot.”

“Now who sounds like a motivational poster,” she groused, but she allowed him to lead her outside. He led her to the space beside the barn and put his hands over his eyes.

“I’m going to count to a hundred. You hide.”

“Hide and seek? That’s your brilliant…”

“One, two, three…”

“I can’t play hide and seek. I’m thirty thr…”

“Four, five, six…”

When it became clear he wasn’t going to stop until he reached a hundred, she squeaked and leapt to attention, scurrying for a good hiding place. And because she was small and had long ago learned to be good at hiding, he couldn’t find her. Not after he counted to a hundred, not after ten minutes of searching. She watched him from her space in the barn rafters, wandering in and out of the barn, checking behind equipment and in each stall.

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