Page 24 of The Risks of Reuniting

"That did not just happen," I cry. "No, no, no, no."

"We have to burn the place to the ground," she huffs with a shaky voice, the silk of her pajamas still trembling. "There's no other answer."

A pounding on our door alerts us to guests a second before the door crashes open. Holt stands there, eyes vaulting back and forth, taking in the scene. He's in a tank and sleep pants, his feet bare, his hair sticking up, and my breath goes out in a second woosh at the sight of him so deliciously rumpled. Why can't he ever look hideous?

"What'sgoing on?" he asks, sounding as breathless as we do. "We heard you screaming." He looks right at me. "Chlo? You okay?"

"Chicas?" Cesar shoves in behind him while my heart contracts at Holt using my nickname.

Cesar is also in pajamas, but he was smart enough to put on shoes before racing over here. We must have screamed loud if they heard us from the other side of the compound.

Rachelle shakes her head, like that will take the image of the scroungy rat away. "There was a rat in Chloe's bed, and she laid on it."

Holt looks at me for confirmation.

I nod, grasping at my gold chains. "I felt it squish under me, and then it squealed . . . it squealed!" I cry. "Then it ran away. I can't believe it isn't dead."

He looks at my bed. "Did it bite you?"

I shake my head and lick my lips, accidentally getting some of the night cream on the tip of my tongue. It's gross. "No, but I'm trying to talk myself into looking to see if there's blood on my sheets."

He nods once and fully enters the room, filling the space, moving toward my bed to do what I'm dreading. I step away to keep from seeing anything I can't unsee as he tugs my covers back and inspects my sheets.

"It's clean." He sounds relieved. The feeling is mutual.

"Is there rat poop in there?" Rachelle asks on a whisper. "Is she going to get e-coli?"

A little amusement tickles at me and I let go of my chains. "Rats don't give you e-coli," I say.

"It's hantavirus," Holt confirms, running his hands over my sheets. "Something equally terrible."

Cesar, clearly confused by the hysterics, volleys some words in Spanish at Holt, who replies and brings him up to speed.

"You wash your bed," Cesar says to me, pulling a face that mirrors the disgust on my own.

"He's right," Holt says. "Who knows how long that rat has burrowed in there. There might be urine."

Rachelle shudders, and I have to work not to do the same. "That's nasty," she says. "What if it, like, chills there during the day when we're gone and you've been sleeping in it?"

I scrub at my arms and pull a face. What if?

"Have you seen rat feces around?" Holt asks me, and the concern on his face does funny things to my heart. Funny, wall-breaking things.

"No," Rachelle answers. "We sweep a couple of times a week and there haven't been droppings."

"That's good," he sighs. "Do you have any extra bedding, Chloe?" I'm slow to process his words, still stuck on the idea that the rat has been hanging in my bed on occasion. "Chlo?" he calls, using my nickname again.

I start and shake my head. "I didn't bring any extras, but there might be some at the laundry. I'll check."

"I'll help," he says, and for once I don't push back too hard. It's nice to have help sometimes, even if it's him. "Let's gather this bedding first."

Holt and I make short work of stripping my bed while Cesar gets down on his hands and knees to see if he can find the hole the rat disappeared through. Rachelle sweeps the floor, and when Cesar strikes gold she helps him stuff the hole with one of our towels.

"Grab an extra towel from the laundry," she calls to me as I'm slipping on shoes to follow Holt out the door.

It's dark out, and with limited electricity the humanitarian center grounds are murky and shadowed. I feel awkward walking next to Holt as we make our way to the laundry facility, which is mostly a small closetoff the side of the cafeteria. It's the first time we've been completely alone in a long time.

"What have you been up to this week?" Holt asks as we move through the dirt-packed yard.

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