Caution wakes up with Wayne-Ray hovering over her.

“I’m going to Timmy Ho’s for breakfast,” he says. “You want I should bring you something?”

She clutches her blanket to her and realizes there is a comforter she hadn’t started out with.

She rubs sleep from her eyes. “What time is it?”

“It’s seven,” he says. “Sorry. I got to be at work by eight.”

She rubs hers face. Remembers her dream. Or was it a dream?

“Kitty?”

“Oh, right,” she says. “Coffee. Thanks. Double-double.”

As soon as he’s gone, she gets up to use the toilet. The shower curtain is still wet from his shower. She finds a clean towel on a shelf and strips down, wishing she’d thought to bring her stuff in here so she could change into fresh underwear. But the shower is wonderful, hot, the pressure good for such an old place. The water digs into her muscles. She wants to stay in the shower all day but realizes he’ll be back soon. She’s dressed by the time he returns.

“Oh,” he says, seeing her wet hair. “Good.”

“Did I stink?” she says.

“Like someone who’d been up to her neck in skunks,” he says.

She smiles and takes the coffee from him. There are doughnuts, too. She takes a Boston cream and wonders if he remembered it was her favorite. She doesn’t deserve this. Not any of it. She looks up into his broad brown face. She lays her hand on his chest, at a place she remembers pounding away at the night before.

“Are you all black and blue?” she says sheepishly.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, grinning. “I’m good and tenderized.”

“Sorry,” she says.

He shrugs. “Rage is good,” he says.

Caution: Use Hand Rail. She’s afraid he’s going to start in on some lecture, so she makes a big deal about setting the table in the changing room–size kitchen.

He works at Long & McQuade, selling guitars. He likes it there. Meets lots of musicians, he tells her, as they sit across from each other at the tiny white table, their knees banging together. “I wanted to tell you something,” he says, wiping powdered sugar off his lips, trying not to get any on his work shirt. She quakes, but it’s not as if she can stop him.

“I’m going to go back to TMI. They said I could come back when I was, you know, ready.”

Ah. “And you’re ready?”

He shrugs, takes another bite of his doughnut. “Maybe next fall,” he says.

Next fall. A year away. She can’t remember the last time she tried thinking past tomorrow.

“That’s good,” she says. He nods. “Good for you, Wayne-Ray.”

He glances at his watch, slurps his coffee. She can see there is more coming and that it’s time sensitive.

“That’s just sort of a lead-in to what I wanted to say.”

Right, she thinks, and folds her hands together on the crumbly tabletop, her head bowed.

“I had to get help,” he says, his voice cast as gentle and low as he can. “I couldn’t, you know, do it alone.”

“Yeah, well —”

But he won’t let her shut him down. “I was numb. You know what I mean. I was dazed and numb. I needed someone to tell me numb was good. It serves a purpose. That’s what they said, right? Gives your emotions time to . . . time to sort of catch up.” He waits, and she guesses he must be looking at her, but she can’t seem to raise her eyes from the gravitational pull of her coffee cup.

“The guy I was seeing. He talked about ‘Life under reconstruction.’ That’s what he called it. I went to these group meetings, too. He talked about ‘companioning.’”

“Listen, Wayne-Ray, I saw a doctor —”

“No, you didn’t, Kitty. Not the kind of doctor I’m talking about. ’Less you mean you saw one here. I’m guessing that didn’t happen.”

She wasn’t going to lie to him, but what was the point?

“Hey,” he says, nudging her hand with his hand. “Sermon over. Okay?” She doesn’t look up. “Okay?” he says again.

She nods.

Then he clears up and brushes his teeth and collects his phone from where it’s recharging. He writes down his cell number. He has no landline, but there is a phone booth out on Roncesvalles. He tells her where. She nods through all of his solicitations, knowing this to be the price she has to pay for a roof over her head and a place to hide.

She follows him to the door, when it is past time for him to leave, and submits to a big cousin bear hug. Then he tips her face upward.

“I need to ask you a big favor,” he says. “I need you to be here when I get back. You understand?”

“Why?” she says.

“I need you not to run away. I don’t think I could stand losing you again.”

Her throat burns. The muscles of her face contract and tighten.

“I don’t deserve —”

“I don’t have time to hear that,” he says. “But there is something I need to tell you. No, don’t roll your eyes — it’s not anything you think. It’s not any more sermons or like that. Promise. It’s way more important than that.”

His face is so serious. “What?”

“There isn’t time to tell you now. That’s why you’ve got to, got to, got to be here.”

“Okay,” she says meekly.

“I’m serious, Kitty. Promise me.”

Can she promise she will still be there in eight hours? Can she even be sure she’ll be alive in eight hours?

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

And then he’s gone. She locks the door, though it’s not a lock Merlin would have any trouble destroying. He doesn’t know where you are, she tells herself, and wonders why she finds this so hard to believe. But she doesn’t wonder for long. She lies down on the couch. She just needs a bit more sleep. Just a bit.