Page 108 of Beyond Protection
"No. You're right." His laugh came out jagged. "Can't even stand in a window."
The drill stopped. Silence rushed in.
"She knows what time I wake up." His voice dropped to barely audible. "What I eat. Which side of the bed I sleepon. She documented everything like I'm a specimen under a microscope."
"You're not a specimen. You're a person targeted by someone unstable. That's on her. Not you."
He looked at me. Red-rimmed eyes. Jaw tight. Those blue-green eyes that photographs had tried and failed to capture.
"How did you do it? After you lost someone. How did you keep going into rooms?"
I thought about lying, but I couldn't do that with Mac. "I didn't. I ran. Took solo contracts where I didn't have to trust anyone, including myself. Worked alone for three years because if I failed again, at least I'd be the only casualty."
"That's bleak."
"It was honest."
"What changed?"
You, I thought. But I couldn't say that.
"I'm still figuring that out."
The drill screamed to life. Mac's jaw clenched, but he didn't flinch this time.
"You should eat something."
He almost smiled. "Has anyone told you you're bossy when you're in protection mode?"
"Frequently."
"Does it work?"
"You're still standing here, so apparently not."
By ten-thirty, Mac had worn a path in Ma's living room carpet. Kitchen to window to hallway. Constant motion.
The mail slot clanked. Mac's head snapped toward it, body rigid.
"Just mail," I said, collecting the envelopes. "Nothing else."
The furnace kicked on. Mac spun toward the sound.
"Furnace. Every twenty minutes."
"Fuck." He pressed both palms against his eyes. "I can't—"
I moved closer. "Mac, look at me."
He dropped his hands. Eyes too wide.
"Name three things you can see."
"What?"
"Three things. In this room."
He blinked. Focused. "The Christmas tree. Ma's chair. The photo of Uncle Graham."
